If the Foundations Be Destroyed
by alice chess
Summary: Post-TDK. Bruce Wayne's life goes from bad to worse, courtesy of his newly-escaped archnemesis. How can the Joker be defeated when Batman is in his unknowing clutches? Includes OCs. Violence, possible deaths.
1. Difficulty

IF THE FOUNDATIONS BE DESTROYED, WHAT CAN THE RIGHTEOUS DO?

Hi everybody. While dreaming of being a novelist, I decided to play around with other people's ideas for fun before returning to my own fictions. I don't own Batman, I don't even _know_ who DOES own Batman, and I've barely paid any attention at all to Batman aside from the new movie. What I DO own is the small obsession with "The Dark Knight" that I'm currently nursing, and a new spanking computer to type this on. Yippee.

The following and all chapters after it are simply my interpretations of these characters. They may or may not fit with others' ideas, or with Batman lore. Includes original characters of varying importance to the story. Any who wish to use these original characters in their own stories (yeah, right!) are welcome to do so, so long as they are not used in profane ways. Any and all ideas about the plot, the characters, et cetera, are welcome and will be accepted. Constructive criticism is doubly welcome if offered.

Please note that violence will occur later on in this story, and that less offensive words like "damn" will be used, but more offensive words will be "asterisked" out. Some sexuality will occur but never anything explicit. As of now this story is rated "T"--if any readers feel the rating needs to be raised, please contact me accordingly and it will be.

Chapter One: Difficulty

Ever since that night, the night that he'd finally left that psycho hanging from his ankle, Batman's life had been growing steadily more unpleasant. It was as if the universe, having finally had enough with the luck of Bruce Wayne, had decided to conspire against him by sending a small army of annoyances, disappointments, and downright unfairness in the hope of bringing him crashing to his knees. As of yet, Bruce refused to yield to this onslaught, but this was due not to the limits of his torments; rather, it was because of a singular quality in his character. Stubbornness. This was a quality he possessed in abundance, and it had both good and bad aspects. Under its influence he trudged onward, no matter the cost, if not for the sake of Gotham, then simply for the sake of following what this quality demanded of him. He must never give in--giving in was to betray not only Gotham, but himself.

Now, however, as he trudged up the most prominent of the marble staircases in his penthouse, hoping to finally collapse into his soft water-bed, the part of him that was Bruce Wayne was unable to switch off the heavy depression threatening to overwhelm him. He was tempted--sorely, sorely tempted--to turn around, stumble down the stairs, and hunt down the liquor cabinet on this floor. Perhaps he could drown his sorrows this night. Or was it morning? Perhaps he could also hunt down a clock. Not one of those horrible old-fashioned analog ones, where he'd have to stand there like an idiot for a few minutes before he figured it out, but a good and sensible digital one where he'd know the time instantly. Right now looking down at his wristwatch would be no help. That dreadful woman had broken it.

He lingered on a step, for the moment paralyzed by indecision. A sudden memory of Alfred popped into his mind. Bruce sighed when he remembered his butler, and what Alfred would think when he found his young master inebriated (_"Getting a little too realistic with the playboy act? Decided you can't fake a hangover so you're going for the real thing?"_). Now that he'd remembered Alfred, he'd have to go to bed straightaway. He didn't want Alfred to have to trudge up the stairs to wake him in the late afternoon, which meant he had to sleep soon. If Bruce didn't, he knew he'd oversleep and force Alfred to serve him a wake-up call. Or worse--force Alfred to send Temperance with a wake-up call. With a shudder, Bruce quickened his step as much as his aching legs would allow, leaning heavily on the banister, head and eyes drooping comically from weariness. '_Oh, if the Joker could see you now, how he'd laugh,_' his mind told him, but as soon as he realized this he clamped down on the thought and shoved it to the recesses of his brain.

What seemed like hours later, he found himself staring blankly at his closed bedroom door. '_Funny,_' he thought with a start, for he hadn't realized that he'd reached the room. How long had he been standing there, staring open-mouthed and glossy-eyed like a turkey in the rain? '_If the Joker could see you now..._'

'_No,_' Bruce thought firmly, cutting off that idea midway through. He reached out to push the door open with his right hand, but the act of turning the knob sent a bolt of lightning up his arm. At first it was as if someone had slammed a brick against his funny bone, rendering his limb unpleasantly numb, but then it turned into genuine pain and he wished the numbness would return. Apparently she'd hit him hard enough to aggravate the pre-existing injury...

"DAMN that woman!" he howled, and in a moment of what he later could only classify as weakness, he let his fit of rage drive him into knocking a nearby vase from its pedestal, along with another piece of...something...he didn't know what it was meant to represent, but it had been expensive and had passed as art, so he had bought that to impress that girl, whatsername...Marishka.

Two crashes and messy shard piles on the floor was enough to dissipate what ill-will he felt, and left him feeling considerably more drained. He'd be lucky if that noise hadn't echoed in the empty house and sent Alfred--or Temperance--running up the stairs. As it was, he'd certainly get a talking-to from Alfred tomorrow, once the sun's light revealed the damage he'd done. Suddenly he felt guilty. Here he was, making more work for Alfred. He had already lied to Alfred a few weeks ago about his dislocated arm. By now he had enough knowledge about his own biology that he was able to snap it back into place himself, even though it hurt like the dickens, so he could afford to keep his injury quiet. Now Bruce would have to lie about it again. If he didn't, Alfred would drag him to that physician, Norbert, and "_I was careless while doing my rock-climbing exercises_" only worked as a suitable excuse the first few dozen times.

Besides, Alfred had been worrying him lately. His arm was not the first injury that he'd conveniently "neglected" to show or mention to his butler. It was not as if Bruce worried that Alfred was unsympathetic. It was just...other things. Little things, like the way that the older man had taken to zoning out--something he but rarely did before--and how he now used both hands to pour drinks, as if he couldn't trust one hand alone. In the past two weeks Bruce had been exceptionally distraught over the cough that his butler had developed. Just yesterday Alfred had been so overwhelmed by sputtering coughs that Bruce made him sit down to catch his breath, and it was only with great difficulty that Bruce was dissuaded from taking his butler to the emergency room.

Alfred had, at the start of Batman's career, pressed for Bruce to visit a doctor occasionally, but he had finally given way to Bruce's wishes when the younger man pointed out that if Bruce Wayne kept showing up with injuries on the same day Batman was hurt, even the most dense doctor alive would figure out something was up. After that Bruce had found he could rely on Alfred to help him with any serious injuries. Of late, however, Alfred had taken to dragging him to Dr. Norbert. Alfred had also taken to saying certain phrases, like "_Dr. Norbert was a good friend of your father's,_" "_he's a good man,_" "_very honest_"--and Alfred's certain favorite, "_a trustworthy man._" If Bruce had a dime for every time Alfred used the words "Norbert" and "trustworthy" in a sentence, he wagered that he'd double his fortune. While certainly not the most subtle man alive himself, Bruce knew when Alfred was belaboring a point.

It was what that point could entail that specifically bothered Bruce. Hadn't it just been the two of them, from the start? Maybe Lucius Fox would be involved, from time to time, but it was always Bruce and Alfred who had lived Batman from day-to-day. All of a sudden, Alfred was suddenly eager to include others in the inner circle, most especially Dr. Norbert. There was also the case of Alfred's "helper" that Bruce had to consider--Remember Temperance Yates, a British woman with a strange name and an even stranger countenance. Bruce was sure she had a temper, but she hadn't shown it yet. Ten weeks on the job and she had yet to smile. It wasn't as if she wasn't pretty--a young, petite redhead with freckles spread over her nose--but her face was unnaturally smooth. No smile, no laughter, nothing... not that laughter was altogether welcome in Bruce's life, after the Joker had ruined most of Bruce's natural good humor... but to never laugh at all?

Perhaps he was too hard on her. He'd avoided her, mostly. He didn't like her, not because of something she'd done, but because of what she represented. Because of what she could do. She never zoned out. Her eyes were like a hawk's. And she poured drinks, one-handed, with the skill of a bartender, trusting one hand to guide everything. She never coughed so violently that she needed to catch her breath. Her presence was unnerving, because it made Bruce unconsciously compare her with Alfred: she can do this, Alfred can't. She can do that, Alfred won't. Alfred even asks her to do it for him. Alfred shows her how to set the table just how Bruce likes it. Alfred shows her how to lock the doors at night. Alfred takes her everywhere, showing her the ins and outs of Wayne Manor. Soon, will he even need Alfred any more, if she can do it all instead?

Of course, Alfred insisted that he was fine--just like Bruce often insisted that he was fine. They were alike, the two of them, having spent so much of their lives together. Alfred could practically claim to have raised him. But now Bruce was no longer a little boy--he was twenty-four years old, and from what he remembered of his younger years, Alfred had already been an elderly man even then. How old was his good friend now? Bruce knew his butler's birthday, of course, and threw a small and homely party (just the way Alfred liked it) every year, but he did not know how old the man was. He must be in his sixties, Bruce mused, maybe even seventies. It was alarming to think about, so he did not ponder it often. When he did, he found himself wondering not what he would do once Alfred was gone, but rather how Alfred's last days would be. He wanted his mentor to be happy. And though Alfred would smile, laugh, and went about almost as well as normal, at times Bruce had the distinct feeling that this was all a show. Then again, what would he know? True, he lived a double life himself, but that did not make him a master of identifying others' subterfuge.

Shaking himself from these thoughts, Bruce used more caution this time, making use of his left hand to grip the doorknob. After waiting a few moments in the door-frame, Bruce decided that the lack of footsteps meant both his servants were happily asleep. The way he should be.

His room was dark, heavily shielded by curtains, so that even the Batman would have found it homely. Not long after taking up his double life Bruce had learned that the sun was his enemy. He battled with it as much as he did the villains of Gotham's alleyways. Thick curtains staved off the light's onslaught every morning--until Alfred or Temperance threw them open, declared it to be noon, and left him to suffer with the light searing his eyes. If he ever left his bed, once he sank down on it, he'd learned that he could never return to sleep. So, more often than not, the daylight won.

But not this morning, Bruce decided. This morning he was going to get up and face the firing squad before his allotted time. He would be down for breakfast, not lunch. Maybe Alfred would see him making an effort, and it would hearten the man enough to make him well. A stupid, childish hope, Bruce knew, but he was far too tired to chastise himself for regressing mentally. He'd wake up tomorrow and go back to pretending everything was okay, and Alfred would pretend with him, and they would both feel all the more mature for it.

First, however, he simply had to take a look at his arm. It was still throbbing horribly. He hissed in pain as he lifted it, his elbow giving such a terrible twinge that he would gladly have parted with it forever, if he could only never feel that sensation ever again. Shutting the door, he flicked on his bedside lamp.

There it was. Purple, blotted, and abused. Almost as bad as it had been three weeks ago, when he had first dislocated it. That injury had been the result of taking a bad fall. This time it was due more to negligence. And that damned woman.

"I hope she falls into an electrical wire, or something," Bruce muttered darkly, as he pressed an ice pack from his little bedroom refrigerator to his elbow. For a long moment afterwards he wondered if he'd truly meant what he'd said. Alfred wouldn't like him thinking like that--not at all. '_It's the choices you make that determine who you are,_' he'd say. Don't be like one of **them**.

Well, others had already decided that he was like one of **them**, hadn't they? The papers were all busy comparing him to the Joker. _A murderer under a mask_, they wrote daily. A terror on the city. Bruce still had enough humor to find it ironic how alike to the actual Joker the newspapers sounded--these papers, who had once declared the Joker to be public menace #1, now were sounding a bit too close to his insane ramblings for Bruce's comfort. He hardly read them any more, unless it was to track how many of the criminals he'd caught had been released by Alejandra Huerta the previous evening.

His arm throbbed. Popping back a couple aspirin, he settled under the bed covers, the water-filled mattress conforming to his limp form. The pain would recede soon, he knew. It would be better in the morning. If only he'd thought that woman had indeed possessed such a throwing arm.

"I don't suppose I want her to die... just go to the hospital for a couple nights and give me some rest," he sleepily mumbled, so quietly that his own words did not stir him from the slumber that was fast overtaking him.


	2. Awakening

**IF THE FOUNDATIONS BE DESTROYED, WHAT CAN THE RIGHTEOUS DO?**

I don't own Batman. Some comics company probably does.

The following and all chapters after it are simply my interpretations of these characters. They may or may not fit with others' ideas, or with Batman lore. Includes original characters of varying importance to the story. Any who wish to use these original characters in their own stories (ha ha) are welcome to do so, so long as they are not used in profane ways. Any and all ideas about the plot, the characters, et cetera, are welcome and will be accepted. Constructive criticism is doubly welcome if offered.

Please note that violence will occur in this story, and that less offensive words like "damn" will be used, but more offensive words will be "asterisked" out. Some sexuality will occur but never anything explicit. As of now this story is rated "T"--if any readers feel the rating needs to be raised, please contact me accordingly and it will be.

The reviewer "Funness" was kind enough to point out that Bruce turned 30 in "Batman Begins." I'm ecstatic to actually hear this, because I did think that he seemed to be around that age in "Dark Knight" and I'm very happy to have a fictional hero who's old enough to know what he's doing. But I'm unfortunately going to go out on a limb here and ignore that, even though I would mostly like to stay within the boundaries of "nolanverse" canon. There's a reason I want Bruce to be so young--younger people are less grounded, more unsure of themselves, and so forth. I'm also hesitant to say I could write from the perspective of a 30+ year old, because I am not near that age myself. Perhaps once I've practiced with my "author voice" a bit more I'll attempt a story from the perspective of someone that age, but I don't think that story would be a fanfic, so oh well.

As for the actual movie "Batman Begins", I'm afraid I'll have to say that I only saw bits and pieces of it, so I might be sketchy on what occurred. With few exceptions, such as Bruce's age, I'd say you could consider it a prequel to this story (as you can also definitely consider the "Dark Knight"). You may note, however, that I've included a line that I remember from that movie in this chapter--just for Funness. ;)

Everything will come together in time. To allow for maximum mystery, at the present I reveal nothing about Huerta, Temperance, or "that woman" Bruce kept mentioning in the last chapter. You'll see them later on. As for Alfred (yay! He DOES have fans!), I'm very happy that you are all concerned...

**Chapter Two: Awakening**

Bruce was having a wonderful day. He'd chanced a glance at the paper, and was pleasantly shocked and surprised to find the headline reading, "BOUNTY ON BATMAN REVOKED." Skimming the article, he found that Councilman Barnes had changed his opinion of the "caped crusader," and led a charge to undo the price that the city council had set on Batman's head. Also changing her tune was the DA, Alejandra Huerta, who announced that she would no longer allow any criminals captured by the Batman to be loosed unto the streets without trial. Glancing up from his paper Bruce met the eyes of Alfred, who smiled and told him, "Now that I'm feeling much better, I've decided I don't need a helper and Temperance has returned to England. I hope you don't mind."

_'I don't mind?'_ Bruce thought. _'Old man, I should hug you_.'

Alfred opened his mouth to say something more, but a woman's voice came out of it: "Arise, Master Wayne, or you'll have a very angry Mayor to deal with."

What?

Suddenly light burst down upon him and he cringed. In his bed, he lifted an arm in attempt to block it out. 'Bats are nocturnal!' he wanted to protest, his old complaint, but he knew it would do no good. A dark sillouette gradually came into his vision--too small and short to be Alfred.

Temperance. Damn.

"What d'yer want?" he demanded roughly, still groggy from restful sleep. He imagined her glowering faintly at his tone.

"Up, Master Wayne," she said calmly. Her voice was velvety, smooth like fine wine, but Bruce secretly believed it hid a temper to rival the devil himself. All he needed was proof...

"Go 'way," he groaned, flinging a pillow over his head.

No sound of footsteps heading toward the door reached his ears. Damn, damn, damn her! She was too unlike Alfred. Alfred would leave him be, leave the room, and come back later to make sure his edict was fulfilled. But not Temperance. Oh, no, she had to sit there and stare at him, as if she could just _will_ him from the bed... Bruce found himself becoming angrier and angrier. He flung his pillow away, then regretted the fact that he had not chosen to fling it at her. Fairly snarling, he stripped off the covers, and shuffled his body to the side of the bed. Unfortunately, he was still too asleep to be menacing, and the water bed kept bouncing and flopping comically under his movements. He was anything but fierce at the moment.

He did, however, glare up at Temperance's green eyes... only to find they did not meet his own. Odd. Temperance almost always looked people in the eyes, almost hypnotically, with such a blank yet probing stare that most people were forced to look away. Following their green gaze, Bruce found that they were focused on his arm. One glance at his elbow made him cringe. It was better than last night, yes--no swelling, either--but it was still blotted purple. Almost as if ashamed, he turned back to her. Green eyes were now focused on his blue ones.

Licking his lips and clearing his voice, he said, "Don't tell Alfred?"

Funny how he phrased it like a question. Wasn't he her employer, not the other way around?

He expected her to protest. Temperance had a way of doing what she liked. But to his surprise, she simply nodded and ducked out of the room, almost as if avoiding his sight. Bruce faintly heard her shut the door softly. How odd.

Cautiously, worriedly, he flexed his elbow. The muscles protested the movement, but it was more discomfort than pain. A couple more asprin would take care of it, so long as he did not overtax his limb. He was careful with it as he dressed, his mind mulling over Temperance's unexpected acquiescence--but, he supposed, he really didn't know if he should have expected anything different. He didn't know her very well, after all. Perhaps this was the way she always acted.

Nonetheless, as he stepped down the stairs, he fully expected to be confronted by Alfred, angry at Bruce for trying to keep such a secret. No such thing occurred. Alfred smiled warmly, made a quick comment about how he shouldn't party so late if he had an appointment with the Mayor the following afternoon, and led him to the kitchen, where Cook Kwan was fixing something up for brunch. On the way he saw Temperance, tidying up the fireplace mantle in the sitting room, but the moment she noticed him she swiftly turned and ducked through the other door. Even odder, he thought.

**000 d da dar dark dark k dark kn dark kni dark knig dark knigh dark knight 000**

"Honestly, Master Wayne, you would think that you of all people would have the ability to say 'no'."

Alfred was shaking his head, almost mournfully, and Bruce was smiling softly to himself. His butler was grumbling and complaining, but Bruce agreed with him and knew he deserved what tongue-lashing he got. He did indeed have a problem of taking too much on his shoulders.

After wrecking his Lamborghini to save the life of that louse, Colman Reese, Bruce had been brought to the police station to file out what he assumed were reports concerning the crash and the situations surrounding it. He thought that would be the end of the incident, making sure to play the "dumb heir" routine up slightly in the face of Commissioner Gordon, in the hope that Gordon would write him off completely as a useless rich playboy.

Apparently he was unsuccessful. That evening, at home waiting for the sun to set, he'd gotten a call from Mayor Garcia. Garcia gushed and rambled on about how grateful the police department and he was for Bruce's timely "intervention," and Bruce was barely able to get a word in edgewise, much less explain how he'd been there "_at the wrong place and the wrong time_." It occurred to him later that this was probably for the best, since even a dumb billionaire playboy wasn't stupid enough to tell the Mayor of Gotham himself how he'd been attempting to run a red light.

But Garcia had not stopped there. Because Bruce had the makings of a "public servant," Garcia had decided that he, as Mayor, ought to take Gotham's richest citizen under his wing. Even Bruce could tell that this was a bid for publicity. After all, he got more press than the Mayor by simply showing up at a night bar, three giggling girls in tow behind him. The tabloids loved to list the names of the girls he frequented with, and if he ever showed up with only one, the next day the papers ran their standard "**THE FUTURE MRS. WAYNE?**" articles. Yet while Bruce did understand that generating the press' fervor was part of the necessity of hiding Batman in the guise of "silly boy Wayne," on some level it still bothered him. His father never received attention over such things. What would his father think of Bruce being associated with this sort of tabloid coverage?

However, such exposure obviously did not bother Garcia. The Mayor had, just a few weeks ago, decided to appoint Bruce as part of the "welcoming committee" for any famous or international visitors to Gotham. All the Mayor had needed was Bruce's permission.

Which, of course, Bruce had given.

'_No_.' How hard was it to say that simple little word? Too hard, apparently, in Bruce's case. Now he was practically stuck being at Garcia's beck and call, he knew, and this was not the first time that he'd been called to Garcia's office to "discuss diplomatic relations." What a member of a simple welcoming committee--much less a private citizen like himself--had to do with the actual diplomatic relations, Bruce didn't know. Wasn't he supposed to just show up and shake hands with whatever bigshot was heading through the world's most crime-riddled city? Bruce supposed that it was actually good that such famous people stopped in Gotham--it gave the city a connection to the outer world, as good an incentive to clean itself up as any other. There had been a time, before Batman, when nobody but the residents would dare set a foot in Gotham. Not that the press would ever attribute the change to the Batman, however. The same press that hounded Bruce for an interview during the day hounded for Batman's blood at night.

"Here we are," said Toby, the limousine driver, a bit too cheerfully. As he pulled under the building's canopy, Bruce risked Albert's wrath by ignoring his butler's complaining and focusing on the building's glimmering steel sides, craning his neck to see how high it reached. The view was impressive, but not as impressive as when he stood on the top, preparing to leap off and glide down to the rest of the city. He liked this building's roof; it was shielded from onlookers below by a jutting ledge. It was private and a fairly comfortable resting spot.

Anthony Garcia was waiting eagerly for him at the door. Seizing Bruce's hand, the smaller man pumped it energetically, declaring rather breathlessly how happy he was that Bruce had arrived so punctually. Bruce winced, but Garcia didn't notice. The motion of the handshake was jarring his elbow. That would certainly hurt later.

"No time is too early to visit Gotham's fine Mayor," he said quickly, with the practiced ease that came only from repeatedly rehearsing in front of the bathroom mirror. Garcia beamed, almost overcome with happiness, and swiftly ushered the younger man into the building. Alfred followed wearily.

Up a set of stairs, past the welcoming desk, and pausing at the elevator door, Bruce took a quick look around. He'd been in this building many times. Nevertheless, it never ceased to amaze him how the offices of the city government were as well-kept and decorated as his own home. It was one thing for him to use his own money on fancy things, but the government offices? Could not the public's tax dollars, of which he was main contributor, be better spent? Since when did every nook and corner need plants and expensive statues lurking there? Did the floor need to be exorbitant black Persian marble, the ceiling sporting crystal chandeliers? Perhaps he was wrong to ally himself with Garcia. But would Garcia's successor be any different?

The ride up the elevator was almost painful. Garcia was prattling on and on, Alfred was quiet in his misery (only turning and making a face at Bruce one time, when Garcia wasn't looking), and Bruce found himself fairly leaping out of his shoes in desperation to leave the confined area. He counted each floor with haste, but it didn't make the elevator move any faster. Time seemed to drag and drag... Bruce wished for his bed. How he wanted sleep...

Immediately after the elevator doors opened, however, the three occupants found themselves nearly assaulted by a young woman, a lanky brunette, who rushed up to the Mayor spouting a stream of gibberish.

"Mr. Mayor, sir! You'll never--sir! Sir, it's so important, sir, sir--SIR you'll never believe--"

Garcia had the sense to look surprised and somewhat bashful at the woman's gobbledegook, and sputtering back he apologized about "stupid interns" to Bruce, as if he expected the billionaire to withdraw his support right then and there. For his part Bruce was sorely tempted to pretend to be upset, if only to yank Garcia's chain, but he found he was too concerned about the woman. The presence of Garcia seemed to calm her down somewhat, and as the Mayor led her away, gesturing to Bruce and Albert to continue to his office while he dealt with her, Bruce heard a string of words he'd hoped he never would.

"It's Arkham, sir, oh sir there's been trouble, **TROUBLE**, sir, if you know what I mean, a big breakout, right out, right now, Gordon's havin' a fit, sir, a right fit..."

Bruce found his heart suddenly in his throat. _Arkham--trouble--breakout_... his three least favorite words, all together in close proximity. But he couldn't say anything--after all, he was only a private citizen and was not supposed to hear of these things as they were occurring, least of all from panicked interns in the mayor's building. Here, he was just Bruce Wayne. Batman was not present at the moment. There was absolutely nothing that playboy Wayne could do about this situation, especially when he was holed up in the Mayor's office, awaiting a long rambling meeting about diplomatic relations and Gotham.

A glance at Alfred's face showed the elderly man's eyes were downcast, his mouth grim. He'd heard the woman's rambling, too.

As they sat together in the Mayor's office both of them said nothing. There was really nothing to say.

**000 Author's Notes 000**

A shout-out to all my reviewers at this time: vballmania23, RapidEyeMovement, running in circles, Funness, CountryPixie, SKY, Trimacle, Haladflire65, & The Love of a Lie

Any and all feedback is always very appreciated. Especially if one takes the time to point out something you would like changed. :)

A second shout-out to the 2 readers who put this story in their favorites. I'm touched.

A third shout-out to the 6 individuals who put this story on "alert" status.

And a fourth shout-out to all 143 viewers of the past chapter. Spending your valuable time reading my drivel is very flattering to me. Give yourselves all a round of applause! XD


	3. Downpour

**IF THE FOUNDATIONS BE DESTROYED, WHAT CAN THE RIGHTEOUS DO?**

I don't own Batman. DC Comics does.

Please note that violence will occur in this story, and that less offensive words like "damn" will be used, but more offensive words will be "asterisked" out. Some sexuality will occur but never anything explicit. As of now this story is rated "T"--if any readers feel the rating needs to be raised, please contact me accordingly and it will be.

The reviewer "The Love of a Lie" has asked what this story is about (FYI, that's _not_ a stupid question!). First of all I want to warn you that this story will be long... really, really long. I wouldn't be surprised if it reached 40+ chapters, maybe more. For now I hope on posting one chapter per day (or at least one every two days), but once the fall semester starts the break between chapters will get longer.

Secondly, there's a lot of OCs who are going to be introduced before the Joker shows up, but when he does all hell will break loose (oh, poor Bruce Wayne...). Just know that the longer it takes the Joker to arrive, the longer the fic will be once he _does_ arrive. And it's going to be dark. DARK, people, **DARK**. No pretty flowers and sweet candy with _him_ involved, oh no...

But don't worry, I won't lose my sense of humor completely. I hate stories without rays of light in them. On the other hand, I won't promise a happy ending. The stories I like best are ones where there's a chance that anybody (or nobody) could make it out alive. Just to warn you. My lips are sealed. I have yet to decide if/how anyone will actually die, though. So it's going to be dark, yet sometimes happy, and people might die. Does that make sense? XP

Every OC has a part in this story. Even the ones who, so far, have only been mentioned.

Suffice to say, right now Bruce's life is in the dumpster in more ways than one, as we shall see over the next few chapters, but _why_ that is you all have to figure out for yourselves. What Bruce will make of his life once the Joker re-enters it...well, that's going to be the story, now, isn't it?

Perhaps I shouldn't say this, because it gives a lot away, but I think that if my readers were monitoring me I might do better. Think about the dichotomy between Bruce and Batman (which was a big part of the "Dark Knight" movie). What can Batman do that Bruce can't? & vice versa? More specifically, what would happen if one half were confronted with a problem that only the other could deal with? It's difficult for me to say more because I'm trying not to give that much away...

Apologies for the long ramblings above. I hope that at least partially answered your question, "The Love of a Lie". Aaaand now...

**Chapter Three: Downpour**

Apparently, this time, Garcia wasn't only intent on just discussing "diplomatic relations," but rather an actual diplomat. A certain country in Europe, a small one that Bruce had never heard of before, was sending an ambassador to the United States. Not only did this person want to visit Gotham, having heard of the fiasco where practically every mobster in the city had been arrested, but also intended to stay in the city for almost a week. It seemed as if no hotel was good enough for this ambassador, either, for Garcia set about pressuring Bruce to not only greet the fellow, but open up his home to the foreign delegation.

Bruce, for his part, held his tongue throughout most of the explanation. When he heard that the delegation was from a "very small Eastern European country," he valiantly resisted the urge to paraphrase a quote from that old movie, Arthur: "_Such a small nation, they recently had the whole country carpeted. I'm talking SMALL._" He managed to squelch the urge to voice this thought aloud.

But that was all he was able to do. His thoughts were not on the conversation at hand--it was not difficult to forget that Garcia was talking, because the man had a habit of repeating himself and spoke so softly that occasionally one had to strain to hear--rather, his mind was several miles away, on the outskirts of town, near Arkham Asylum. What was Commissoner Gordon up to? What about the inmates? Were they being rounded up? Were they escaping?

Yet Bruce's thoughts also kept straying from a general notion of "inmates" to one, particular, _unique_ inmate. A blood-red grin kept revealing itself in his mind. He repeatedly pushed this thought away, the moment it occurred to him, forcing himself to focus on Garcia's rambling; but soon enough Garcia's words faded to background noise and he was again mentally traveling the road to thinking about that horrific smile. He was working himself up, he knew, but he somehow just couldn't stop.

'_Please, God, not him,_' he found himself thinking fervently. '_Anybody but him. Crane, any of those other wackos. But not him. Not that damned clown..._'

Strange. Bruce did not generally think of himself as an overly religious person, no more than an average American. Yet, faced with the possibility of even _thinking_ about this particular human being, he turned to prayer. It was as if only God Himself could truly and finally stop the monster that now occupied Bruce's thoughts.

He was so tense. His foot was tapping on the floor, impatiently, his fingers clutched to the side of his chair. His right elbow throbbed uncomfortably.

How long had it been since he had left that monster, hanging by his ankle, for the police to deal with? Seven months. Two months for a trial. During that period Bruce had stopped reading the papers, so consumed were they with the one man in the world that he wanted to forget. Then, once they no longer had HIM to talk about, the papers had turned to Batman. A murderer of seven people. _Who knew how many others Batman had killed in cold blood_, the papers mused. How many of the "criminals" Batman caught were really innocent citizens, going about their business? Bruce suspected that the mob had something to do with the papers' musing over the latter question. A few bribes, and the papers could possibly be persuaded to write even more virulently against Batman, whom they already were busy lambasting. No wonder he hadn't bothered to return to the papers during the latter five months of his Joker-free life.

But now...

The papers might just be the least of his worries.

Bruce suddenly shook himself. What was he thinking? The papers were the tip of the iceberg, even before the trouble that was currently happening at Arkham. Surely mobsters, thieves, and gangs were more trouble to Batman than a bad editorial? Not to mention the bounty placed on his head... or that damned woman who thought she could earn it...

While on the subject of that woman, his elbow was killing him.

He stood abruptly. Garcia trailed off, looking up at him in confusion. Furiously, Bruce tried to recall what nonsense the mayor had last spouted. Or, rather, what little of that nonsense he'd bothered to pay attention to.

"Mr. Mayor, as glad as I am for your company, and how grateful I am to be taken into your confidence in such an important matter, I must sorrowfully note that you are not the only appointment I have today. I'm afraid I must be going soon. Is there anything else of particular importance that we need to discuss?"

The mayor blinked. His mouth opened, worked like a fish, closed. Finally he said, weakly, "But..."

Bruce gave a weary glance to Alfred, who took that as his cue to stand as well. The elderly butler smiled disarmingly, and said, "I'm sure you will get into contact with Master Bruce if there are any more details you wish to confer."

"But..." said Garcia again, "But...your answer..."

Halfway to opening the door, this utterance caused Bruce to pause. "What?"

"Your answer...about..."

It was obvious that Bruce did not know what Garcia meant. Once again Alfred came to his rescue.

"Are we prepared to give an answer, Master Bruce, about whether you will house the ambassador and delegation at the manor?"

"Oh," Bruce said, sounding remarkably lost, just like Garcia. "Well, yes, yes, of course."

He didn't quite know what else to say--he'd probably regret being so dismissive tomorrow, when he realized what housing an ambassador's delegation would entail, but right now he just wanted out of there. He wanted his pillow, his blanket, his bed. He'd need his sleep for tonight, when he planned to scour the city for Arkham's miscreants. Hopefully Dr. Crane would be the worst of them that he'd have to find.

Behind him, Alfred gave a small groan as they left the office. The butler was obviously not looking forward to playing host.

"Can't say '_no_,' can I?" Bruce said softly, but Alfred gave no response. Perhaps he hadn't heard the younger man. Or perhaps he had, and had indeed responded, but it was Bruce himself who didn't pay attention.

Bruce did not get the chance to say anything else, for a moment later he collided with somebody in the hall. Glancing up he found himself sprawled before an equally ungainly Alejandra Huerta, who was none other than Gotham's new D.A. She was a small woman, rather like Temperance, but the slighest bit taller, and her hair was jet black, cropped short. A gold stud stood out on her left ear. Also like Temperance she possessed green eyes, which were currently narrowed with bad temper. When she saw who he was, however, she visibly brightened.

"Mr. Wayne! What brings you here?"

Oddly enough, Bruce did not trust himself to answer right away. She had knocked his breath out--it had been rather like colliding with a pile of bricks. He took the moment to make a quick glance down at the mess of papers surrounding them, which revealed that she had not only been carrying creamy folders full of legalese, but also several editions of "Gotham's Stars" and "The Rich's Reporter", two of the city's most notorious gossip magazines. Bruce himself was featured promienently on the cover of each. She was a fan, then?

"Oh," he said, having found his voice, "Just came to see Garcia... I-I mean the Mayor..."

"Well," she beamed back, "How good it is to see you! I must say, I've been D.A. for a good six months now, but I still haven't gotten around to meeting everyone important in this town. Just the other day, I had a similar run-in with Lucius Fox, but that is pretty much all."

'_Poor Lucius,_' Bruce thought, '_If you can knock the breath out of me, I wonder how hard you collided with him..._'

"Speaking of which, I don't suppose I could set up some sort of appointment with you? You are, after all, a public figure and I'd like to..."

In the middle of her sentence, Bruce's elbow gave an especially painful throb. He just barely managed to keep a look of pain off his face. Suddenly his desire for asprin increased tenfold, and he scrambled to his feet, with every intention of running for the door.

"Well, yes!" He said, quickly. "Of course! Just call my office..."

Without waiting any longer, he rushed off down the hall, Alfred happily in tow, while Huerta called out, "Sure thing! I'll be seeing you, just as soon as I can get away from hunting that _Batman!_"

Bruce only grimaced.

The elevator ride wasn't fast enough. Alfred kept sneaking looks at him. He attempted to pointedly ignore the glances, hoping Alfred would get the message. Apparently he failed, because the older man cleared his throat.

"Master Wayne, I do believe that you are somewhat... bothered. The possibility of Arkham experiencing a breakout is rather difficult information, I know..."

"No, Alfred," Bruce cut his butler off. "You don't know. Not really."

Silence. Bruce allowed himself a moment of satisfaction before beginning to feel guilty. How childish was he being? Walking out on the Mayor, dismissing the new D.A., and then snapping at Alfred? At Alfred, who'd attempted to hide his coughing that morning, and who had only been trying to make him feel better just now. Still, stubbornness was Bruce Wayne's major quality--and it was a deep part of the heart and soul of Batman as well. He kept quiet, stewing in his own guilt, rather than admit his wrong.

Alfred continued to give him the silent treatment as they walked past the welcoming desk, heading for the doors. Bruce wished his older friend would just say something, but no, Alfred was too smart for that. Surely the butler knew what his employer was feeling, and he was perfectly content to let Bruce sort through his whirlwind of emotions, bringing his guilt to a slow simmering boil, until it finally cooled and Bruce apologized for his outburst. It took the younger man a while to work emotions out of his system, as Alfred had learned through long experience.

As they stepped outside, heading for Toby's limousine, Bruce felt a small droplet land on his shoulder. It collided with a small "_pat_" sound, and was followed swiftly by another. Glancing up, he saw the darkening sky, while the cool air around him became even more chilly. Great. A summer storm to match his mood. It might even continue into that evening, when Batman would be forced to endure the rain, alone in the dark. What could be worse?

The moment he asked himself this question, he wanted to withdraw it. For immediately after it popped into his mind, he spotted who stood sturdily between him and the limousine, camera and microphone in hand, staring defiantly at him as he and Alfred approached.

**000 Author's Notes 000**

Once again a round of accolades.

Thunderous clapping goes to all the current reviewers: The Love of a Lie, ColtDancer, CountryPixie, Almost Funny, Jinnie, Csillan.Rose, & Haladflire65

Kisses (o.0) to repeat reviewers: The Love of a Lie, CountryPixie, & Haladflire65

Feedback feeds the beast. Questions are my milk & honey.

Aside to ColtDancer: DARN IT!! I noticed while writing the first chapter that I kept putting "Albert" instead of "Alfred," but I thought I'd fixed that. Thank you so much for bringing it to my attention. BTW, I love your penname. ;)

Whistles to the 1 viewer who put me on "author alert." I commence with the blushing.

Nods to the 6 new individuals who recently put this story on "alert" status.

Huggies to the newest 137 viewers. That you could read through two chapters of this...wow...


	4. Coverage

**IF THE FOUNDATIONS BE DESTROYED, WHAT CAN THE RIGHTEOUS DO?**

I don't own Batman. DC Comics does.

The following and all chapters after it are simply my interpretations of these characters. They may or may not fit with others' ideas, or with Batman lore. Includes original characters of varying importance to the story. Any who wish to use these original characters in their own stories (yeah, right!) are welcome to do so, so long as they are not used in profane ways. Any and all ideas about the plot, the characters, et cetera, are welcome and will be accepted. Constructive criticism is doubly welcome if offered.

Please note that violence will occur in this story, and that less offensive words like "damn" will be used, but more offensive words will be "asterisked" out. Some sexuality will occur but never anything explicit. As of now this story is rated "T"--if any readers feel the rating needs to be raised, please contact me accordingly and it will be.

**Chapter Four: Coverage**

Just a few lucky paces more, and Bruce would have been standing right beside the limousine. Apparently fate had other ideas.

"Mr. _Wayne,_" said Montana Payton, managing to make his very name sound like an epithet, "I've been waiting."

He was in no mood for hostile journalists, and the only person he hated more at that moment was a certain scar-faced lunatic who was probably currently making his escape from Arkham some miles away.

"What do you want?" Bruce responded, and he surprised himself with how calm and collected his voice sounded. Inside he was raging. The paparazzi were bad enough, but they were just after a good story and the money they would get for it--this one, this reporter, was not concerned with money, or an exclusive, or even just plain old reporting. Her goal, he'd long since figured out, was to destroy him, publicly, in every way she could. She was an idealist--but while he found himself agreeing with many of her ideals (though not _every_ ideal, of course), he disagreed entirely with her methods.

Montana Payton was belligerent. Insistent. And most of all, irrational. These poor qualities, along with a host of other ones, combined to make her fairly toxic to Bruce's memory, let alone his person when she stood in front of him. She was tall for a woman, meeting him eye-to-eye, a cold look there that was less like Temperance's disdainful gaze and more like a calculating predator. Her eyes were rather pretty, even if the rest of her wasn't. They were obscured, however, behind her murky and dirty glasses, ruined behind that hostile facade--which was as good a metaphor for Montana's whole being as any. For while Montana could have been beautiful, inside and out, she instead chose to take what she had been given and hide it behind her sense of self-righteousness, the same quality that made her pursue Bruce Wayne with the persistence of a madwoman.

"You know, Mr. _Wayne_, what I want," Montana said quietly. "An interview. So you can explain to the people of Gotham why their richest citizen isn't doing his fair share to clean up the city. Why he fritters away his time with girls and cars instead of caring for the poor. Why he lives in the second largest manor in this half of the country while the city is littered with the homeless and hungry."

Not for the first time, Bruce wondered if he should hire some bodyguards. Not that he'd ever truly need them, of course, and there was always the possibility that their presence would hamper his movements, preventing him from being able to escape to the bat-cave at a moment's notice, but on the other hand they might be able to strong-arm Montana away. Or at least prevent her from planting herself between Bruce and his route of escape.

Time for him to hide under the "worthless playboy" routine. It was bad enough that he had to do it at all--did she need to force him into playing it so well, constantly?

"Are you suggesting that girls and cars aren't worthy enough items for my attention?" Bruce lightly asked, waggling his eyebrows at her. He made a face as well, which seemed to infuriate her into responding with a near-screech.

"I'm suggesting that if that's all you spend your money on, you are obviously not a worthy keeper of it! Educate yourself, Mr. _Wayne_ and open your eyes to the suffering of the lower classes! Stop wasting money and time and do something to help the innocent and helpless in Gotham!"

Enough of this. As Batman he'd done a hundred times more for the "innocent and helpless in Gotham" than a reporter's waste-of-paper moral ramblings in the Sunday columns ever would.

"Miss Payton," Bruce said, tersely, "It is my money and I have the right to do with it as I please. My parents earned that right when they made smart decisions and climbed up from the lower middle class."

'_And if I want to spend it buying a brand new bat-mobile, that's none of your business,_' he added mentally, and then quickly continued verbally before she could cut in edgewise; something that Montana Payton was exceptionally good at doing, he'd learned (the hard way, unfortunately).

"Furthermore, to add to this, I would like to remind you--as I have reminded you repeatedly--I do finance several important charities... no, ALL the important charities... in this city, both through Wayne Industries and with the use of my personal funds. What more you could ask of me, frankly, I do not care to know."

Fortunately, before Montana could respond, she was rudely interrupted.

"Hey, lady!" Tony the driver shouted, his window rolled down. "You may have time to waste on my customer, but I don't! I gotta family to feed, missy, so move it so I can get on with _my_ job!"

Fairly glowering, Montana surprisingly moved away. She tried to give Bruce the full brunt of her righteous glare as he walked past her, but he ignored her.

As he stepped into the car, Alfred ceremoniously choosing to "hold" open the door for him (yet still giving him the silent treatment), Montana apparently decided to get one more word in edgewise.

"Well, Mr. _Wayne,_ as I recall, the same father who gave you those inherited riches was also much more active in helping the poor and suffering in this city. Such a shame you cannot follow his example!"

All calmness in Bruce's facade instantly vanished, and only Alfred's warning glance kept him from leaping back out of the limousine and yelling back several choice words. How dare she? She hadn't even known his father--he'd be surprised if she had even been out of diapers when his father died. Damned journalist...

"Keep your mouth shut about things you don't understand," he all but snarled at her through the window. "Shouldn't you be out covering Arkham or something? You'd certainly belong there!"

She didn't rise to his insult, merely raising her unplucked eyebrows in incredulity. As Toby pulled away, Bruce heard her shout while he was rolling up his window.

"Whad'ya mean, 'covering Arkham'?"

**000 d da dar dark dark k dark kn dark kni dark knig dark knigh dark knight 000**

By the time Bruce reached home, he was in a foul mood. Alfred was still quiet, but before disappearing to his own rooms he paused, giving Bruce a pat on the arm. This seemed to be his way of communicating camaraderie while remaining silent.

The woman's words had stung. Bitterly.

As soon as Alfred was gone, Bruce found himself alone and unable to sit still. He wandered through the manor, room to room, idly pausing to observe this or that trinket, but in reality seeing nothing. He really wouldn't remember any of it later. Did he really need so many decorations? Surely his house would look just as good without the silly modern art and the unidentifiable glass... statues? Is that what those were? He couldn't think of anything else to call those wavy knobs he found drilled into one of his walls. Obviously the interior decorator he'd hired had thought they were interesting enough to fill a whole wall full of them, whatever they were.

Quite by accident Bruce met Temperance in one of the sitting rooms. She quirked a red eyebrow at him (as only Temperance--or perhaps Star Trek's Spock--could do), and then had the audacity to quietly ask if something was wrong. Bruce noticed she still seemed to be avoiding his eyes, as she had done that morning, but now to a lesser extent. He couldn't work himself up enough to be annoyed at her presence. After telling her he was fine, he found himself being ushered along, into the kitchen area.

The cook beamed to see him. She was a Chinese immigrant by the name of Kwan Lan, but her Chinese food was absolutely dreadful--she did best when cooking Italian dishes. Bruce sat on a barstool, watching her plump little form bustling about. Across from him were her young twin sons, Kwan Shun and Kwan Huan, who cheekily grinned at him. He couldn't help but let a smile appear on his face. Although he had met the boys only twice before, both incidents had been memorable times. The first time they had managed to spill their orange juice over his new pantsuit. On the second, they had knocked him and Marishka--that girl who often went bar-hopping with him--flat on the floor while running past, as their mother chased after them screeching in Mandarin. He had found that incident rather funny; Marishka, of course, had gone into hysterics.

Temperance must have managed to sneak out while he wasn't paying attention, because when he looked for her he found she wasn't present. Just as well, he thought, while watching Lan wipe down a stove. Wasn't he supposed to dislike her, anyway? Hopefully after a nice long rest he would get his energy back and could return to despising her with a passion.

Shun and Huan seemed to be making a game out of who could get their mother to scold who first. They kept spilling their drinks, knocking their heels against the chairs noisily, and slurping at the small bowls of soup placed in front of them. When they thought she wasn't looking they made faces at her, winking conspiratorially at Bruce. He tried his best not to laugh, but it was hard when they kept muffling giggles. Their mother must have understood what they were doing. She paused to give them a death glare, which quieted them immediately, before giving Bruce an apologetic glance. Bruce did laugh, then, and when Lan turned around once more the twins grinned even wider at him. They were both missing their front teeth.

Bruce glanced out the kitchen window. The sun was just fading over his garden's treeline.

It was time to go. Finally.

**000 Author's Notes 000**

I really wasn't intending to make this chapter so caught up with Montana Payton, as she's actually a minor player in this story (although now, with so much on her, I probably will have to increase her role or something...). But I couldn't find a way to make this chapter mesh with the next chapter, and her dialogue kept coming, so I figured, what the heck? This is as good a way to show Bruce's life sucks as any other. Your life would suck too if you had a journalist like her on your tail. Even as Bruce Wayne, Batman has bad press.

To make this travesty up to you, I've posted a second chapter at the same time. Don't think this will become a habit, though. ;)


	5. Memories

**IF THE FOUNDATIONS BE DESTROYED, WHAT CAN THE RIGHTEOUS DO?**

I don't own Batman. DC Comics does.

Please note that violence will occur in this story, and that less offensive words like "damn" will be used, but more offensive words will be "asterisked" out. Some sexuality will occur but never anything explicit. As of now this story is rated "T"--if any readers feel the rating needs to be raised, please contact me accordingly and it will be.

Here's that second chapter. It's a bit shorter.

**Chapter Five: Memories**

It was the night of the 21st. Seven months, to the day, since Rachel died.

And now her killer might be free, stalking the streets again.

The very thought made his blood boil.

Alfred wasn't there when Bruce struck the piano keys to enter his "bat-cave"--nor did the butler arrive in time to see him off. Just as well, Bruce supposed. He wanted to be angry right now. It would give him focus. If his old friend showed up, he'd start feeling guilty again and his anger would simmer away. No; he wanted to savor his rage, plan out ahead of time what he would do if--no, _WHEN_--he found that lunatic, how much he would hurt that creep for even thinking, just merely _thinking_, about escaping Arkham. If the clown knew what was coming, who was searching Gotham for his blood, Bruce believed that psychopath would have thought twice about breaking out.

Of course, these thoughts were quite dark, even for Batman, but Bruce wasn't going to argue the morality of such things. He was willing to sacrifice his peace of mind later for his burning anger now.

The bat-mobile was neglected, left behind. Tonight, Batman forgot about style. Subtlety was his friend at this moment.

One might think that a young man wearing a bat-mask, and who had a bounty approaching a million dollars on his head, would be entirely unable to practice something even _remotely_ approaching subtlety. However, Bruce had long since perfected the art of making darkness his ally. Criminals, too, had learned this--the hard way. Even after the Joker fiasco, most of the mobsters still waited for daylight to gather and scheme; for during the daylight hours Batman was gone, replaced by a drowsy, sleep-deprived Bruce Wayne. Not that anyone knew he was Bruce Wayne, of course, but who Batman was during the daytime didn't concern criminals. It was his activities at night that caused them to worry.

This night, however, no mobster would need to fear. Batman was after bigger prey.

As he stood, crouched, on the very top of the Mayor's building, Batman channeled his anger into a state of absolute awareness. His hand was pressed to the side of his head. Through his earpiece the crackles of hundreds of radios and cell phones were available for his private perusal. The Mayor's building was very ideal for this, being so high up and situated in an important part of the city. To aid in his nightly searches for trouble the earpiece had even been programmed to only seek out signals that carried high-decibel and high-pitched voices. Very few people stayed calm if they were phoning in an attack. Or if they were reporting that they'd just seen Gotham's worst nightmare, the Joker himself.

It was good, allowing himself to think about the Joker, for once. As Bruce Wayne, he found himself unable to. The subject was just too painful in too many ways. But as Batman it was easy. Especially while he was angry. Batman had always been stronger than Bruce. He controlled his fear... something that Bruce still had to work on. Strange how one side of him could fear the Joker, while the other was so unafraid. Was it the mask? Perhaps that was it--with the mask on, the Joker could not see his face, and so he had nothing reveal, no vulnerability exposed to the eyes of his worst nightmare...

There! Through his sensor came a loud, terrified screech, accompanied by what surely was the sound of a gunshot in the background. A civilian phoning the police, and who had been cut off, no doubt. He'd have to arrive at the scene before the cops. Even Gordon hunted him now, if only for show. Pausing only to check for witnesses on the street, the Batman spread his cape and leapt from the roof.

Down, down, down, faster and faster, he fell. Swooped, was more like it. If his mask had been off, he would have enjoyed the feel of wind in his hair, but as Batman he was too practical for that. He kept his mouth closed, so the chilly night air wouldn't sear his lungs. The city was still wet and damp with the remains of the afternoon's shower.

He pulled up about half a block away from where the signal had come. It wouldn't do to arrive in the midst of a firefight, if one was occurring. Hopefully the citizen who had made the phone call wasn't dead. Or dying.

The Batman moved cautiously. He knew this neighborhood. It was residential, but that didn't stop those who had business dealings best kept quiet from setting up shop there. Keeping himself in the shadows as much as possible (the cloudy night greatly helped him in this effort), he skirted from rooftop to rooftop, his eyes focused on the ground where he knew the action would be. On his third rooftop he spotted the body.

At first, it looked like a cadaver. Crumpled, almost as if stuffed, into a corner, its hands wrapped around its legs and its face buried in its knees. Then Batman saw it shaking. The hands suddenly clutched tighter to poorly-washed business pants before plastering themselves to the face. It seemed to be rocking slightly, almost like a child trying to comfort itself. A quick look at all angles revealed that there was nobody else around.

But Batman was still suspicious. Where had the gunshot come from? Surely this was the right location. This...lone civilian...was too conveniently placed. The whole setup screamed _"ambush!"_

Yet what else could he do? He didn't see any blood, but that didn't mean the fellow below wasn't injured. Unless he was going to be swarmed by a group of ten or so cronies, he could probably fight his way out. Or, seeing as his elbow was at best only slightly fragile at the moment, he could at least find safety on a nearby roof easily enough.

Debating his options wouldn't help the cowering civilian. He decided to jump.

There were a number of times in his career when Batman had done equally foolhardy things, expecting the worst, and when the worst always came he found himself resisting the urge to scream in frustration. Many, many times he had jumped from a rooftop, in the exact same situation, only to find himself attacked from all sides even before his feet touched the ground.

This was not one of those times.

He stood, hunched, waiting for a blow. Or at least for a hint of life present, aside from the huddled man and himself. Nothing came, and Batman let out a breath he'd been holding. Still cautious, he crept up to the cowering form.

"It's all right," he said, using the deeper tone he reserved for his disguise. After the news had come of Batman committing "murders," and the newspapers subsequent vilification of his character, civilians were just as terrified--if not more--of him than the mobsters were. Certainly he had no more little boys announcing that he was "_their hero_." But if he was going to get this civilian to explain what had happened, he needed for the man to have control of his fear.

"Hey," he continued, "It's okay."

The figure did not stop trembling. Obviously the spasms were involuntary, but how uncontrollable they were, he couldn't tell. Carefully, as gently as his strength and the man's resisting would allow, he peeled the hands away from the face.

He was confronted by a man who seemed consumed by absolute terror. The fellow was practically foaming at the mouth, his eyes rolling wildly in their sockets. Batman had seen these symptoms before.

"Oh, c'mon!" Came a whining voice behind him. "Fresh outta the loony bin, my _own_ loony bin, and I meet you? Where's my run of luck?"

Well, in his prayer earlier that afternoon, Bruce had asked God to send Crane, right? He couldn't say that the divine didn't deliver.

**000 Author's Notes 000**

The second chapter I've posted is devoted to all my lovely reviewers. Such a positive reaction to this story! I'm genuinely surprised--the Joker hasn't even shown up yet! I've barely begun. Hopefully people will still like it once the ball really starts rolling...

My latest reviewers all get digital cake: Thedarkknight17, Dark.Morning (formerly "The Love of a Lie"), Almost Funny, Trimacle, running in circles, CountryPixie, ladie red, & Funness

Repeat reviewers--Dark.Morning (happy I could answer your question! :D), Almost Funny, Trimacle, running in circles, CountryPixie, & Funness--all get a second piece.

Cookies to the 1 person who added me to their "author alert" list. Chocolate chip or oatmeal?

Free fruit punch to 2 people who placed my story on their "favorites" and the other 3 gals (guys?) who added my story to their "alert" list. Yay!

The fellow who put me on their "favorite list" (I'm assuming this is one for authors?) gets a bag of tootsie rolls.

All 155 viewers get to have a whack at the pinata. Line up, now. ;)


	6. Silhouette

**IF THE FOUNDATIONS BE DESTROYED, WHAT CAN THE RIGHTEOUS DO?**

I don't own Batman. DC Comics does.

Please note that violence will occur in this story, and that less offensive words like "damn" will be used, but more offensive words will be "asterisked" out. Some sexuality will occur but never anything explicit. As of now this story is rated "T"--if any readers feel the rating needs to be raised, please contact me accordingly and it will be.

As I've said before, this fic will be pretty long. I've got it sort-of planned out in my head, but not in a very detailed way, y'know? Anyone who has any plot ideas, I have plenty of room to change the plot so they would be helpful and gratefully accepted. I know it's not as fun thus far because the Joker has yet to make an appearance (even though, as our little secret, I'm writing ahead and have just started writing the chapter where he does...). I hope I'm not taking things too slowly, however. I just want everything to fit so I don't have to introduce too many characters in mid-stream.

The focus of this story is Bruce, and it's probably mostly going to be told from his point of view. So remember that all characterizations of people that I give are _his_ ideas about them. Is he always correct in his assumptions? We'll see...

There is another (female) character whose name I haven't given you yet, but Bruce mentally calls her "that woman" and there's been mentions that she hurt his arm. Keep her in mind.

**Chapter Six: Silhouette**

_"Oh, c'mon!" Came a whining voice behind him. "Fresh outta the loony bin, my _own_ loony bin, and I meet you? Where's my run of luck?"_

_Well, in his prayer earlier that afternoon, Bruce had asked God to send Crane, right? He couldn't say that the divine didn't deliver._

A blow from behind--not completely unexpected--shoved Batman into the drugged man, who let out a screech as if he was dying. The vigilante lashed out with his legs, trying not to jar his weak elbow, and caught his assailant in the knee. He took that moment to right himself and turn around, but Crane was already scrambling on all fours to escape. Arkham had obviously not been kind to the former doctor, who was still wearing his patient's uniform and whose thin, emanciated form almost made the Bruce inside Batman wince. Unfortunately for the good doctor, Batman was still in top condition. It took him two seconds and two paces to catch up to the madman--and approximately three seconds for him to realize Crane was not alone, as a second blow hit him from behind.

Turning, he saw what he'd failed to see initially, he'd been so focused on Crane and the victim--a second madman, wearing the same sterile outfit, who was missing an eye. Whereas Crane was tragically underweight (and an unfortunate wimp in even the best of shape, anyway), this other fellow was big. Enormous. He must have stood a little above seven feet, something that the slightly-above-average Batman could not compete with. And he had a gun.

For some reason, however, the psycho was more intent on using it as a blunt instrument than for its special performance. Which was just as well, for while Batman's suit certainly would have protected him, it hurt every time he took a shot and he wasn't keen on learning what a bullet would feel like at this close range.

He dodged a second blow that eyeless-guy aimed at him, and ducked to sink his left fist into the madman's stomach. Eyeless-guy sputtered nastily. Crane--Batman had lost sight of the doctor, but a quick glance behind him showed Crane was missing. Damn it. While he was busy fighting with Mr. Open Eye Socket, Crane was making his gettaway, and the doctor's latest test subject was dying, shivering and shaking in his corner. Except that the victim wasn't quiet and huddled any more: he was screaming at the top of his lungs, something that managed to make Batman all the more sympathetic yet annoyed with the fellow at the same time.

Eyeless-guy recovered quickly, unsurprising seeing as Batman could only use his left arm for punching. His right, which could deliver the heavy blows, was currently out of commission, and he didn't dare use it for fear of making his elbow worse. A sock to the madman's jaw only gave him bruised knuckles. While he had yet to ponder how rediculously hard the psycho's chin was, he received a blow to the side of his head that sent him sprawling. There was a horrible _screeeeeeeeee_ sound in his ears, louder even than the drugged civilian's screeches. The last hit had obviously done something unfortunate to his earpiece's equipment.

From somewhere deep within himself, Bruce felt the gush of warm liquid on the side of his face. Was he bleeding? Had the busted equipment cut into his skin? Batman did not care about such things, however, and it was Batman who was in control now. The vigilante rolled, instinctively knowing that his opponent's next move would be to stomp. He was not disappointed.

_WHAM WHAM WHAM...crack!_

The fourth "stomp" had actually been a kick, which connected with Batman's stomach. He went flying into a wall. No time to catalogue his hurts right now--the suit would take most of the force in any case. As the lunatic approached at a run, he used that time to stand. There was a fire-escape above him. Leaping, he clutched the lower edge and used his momentum to lash out with his feet. Eyeless-guy was thrown backwards, his neck jerking in such a jarring motion that he might have experienced whiplash. Nevertheless, in the precious few moments where Batman landed back on the ground and advanced toward him, the lunatic gained his feet.

The one-eyed man dropped his handgun, which clattered alarmingly on the concrete. He charged back at the vigilante, who had the sense to see this coming, and who ducked under the larger man's grappling hands. Another punch to the psycho's stomach. This seemed to be the only thing that worked, for eyeless-guy stumbled back, wheezing. Batman barely had time to register this before the madman's next blow, however. This one was delivered to the other side of his head. He saw stars, then felt hands tightening around his throat. His legs kicked in the air, but found no ground under them. It was increasingly hard to breathe. He was close to blacking out, but hell if he was going to go without struggling some more...

A brief flash of movement in Batman's vision warned him of Crane's impending return to the scene. He thrashed in eyeless-guy's grip, worried not that Crane would take advantage of his helpless state to go for the abandoned gun, but rather for something else--and apparently he did have reason to worry. Crane lifted his arm, and with a screeched, "_Hold him still, dammit!_" pressed the trigger on his palm, sending out a cloud of gas and smog that nearly blinded the Batman.

Unfortunately for Crane, this particular dose of chemicals also managed to catch his fellow crony, who immediately began wheezing and fell to the pavement, clutching alternatively at heart and throat. Batman had little time to take this in before Crane was off and running once more. The vigilante, shaking his head to clear it--something which seemed rather futile--rushed after the former doctor, leaving the whimpering civilian and writhing lunatic behind. The coming police and paramedics would deal with them.

Crane was shrieking wildly as he ran, like a wounded animal. _Shut up, you moron!_ Batman thought angrily. _Do you want to draw every gangster this side of the city?_ The doctor fled like a bat out of Hell--a rather potent metaphor, actually--weaving and ducking unsteadily as his bare feet slapped the concrete. His arms were waving wildly, almost as if he was flapping them. He tripped, and Batman was almost upon him, but then...

Later on, safe at his manor, Bruce would wonder how and where he had been hit at that particular moment. However, as he was currently experiencing it, the only thing that Batman knew was that he had been running one second, and the next was sprawled in an ungainly heap at someone's booted feet. Green boots. Small--petite, even. Definitely a woman's shoe size.

Batman groaned. Not again.

"I've had enough of you terrorizing this city, you fiend," spoke a woman's voice. Strange. While Bruce elected to make his "Batman" voice lower, this woman chose to make her masked voice higher. It was almost a squeak. A...mousy voice.

Oh, if he ever told her that, he wondered how she would explode in his face.

"It's all right, sir!" the woman called to the fleeing form of Dr. Crane. "_Silhouette_ is here to save you!"

"'_Silhouette_'," Batman grunted, "Has just let a psychotic lunatic escape."

The woman turned back to the vigilante, who now stood and towered over her. Her clothing was green, glossy, and it left not a single inch of skin bare; likewise, her face was draped in a thick black cloth, obsuring all her features except for her eyes. They were green too, he realized, now that he was close enough to inspect them.

Or, rather, he was close enough to inspect them without having to dodge that dratted stick she carried around.

He supposed that her weapon could probably be more identified as a "staff," for it was about her height and was bound with green tape. But, seeing as he'd had the unfortunate experience of meeting closely with it more than once, he believed he had the right to call it anything he wanted. It had been aimed at him so many times that it was practically "his" stick. Batman would not have been surprised to find his name on it. This particular blunt object had once left him with a headache for a whole week. Just a few days ago, it had struck his nearly-healed elbow after being flung from a distance of thirty yards. Batman still found himself cursing that he hadn't seen it coming.

"Didn't I just knock you out?" His fellow vigilante--"Silhouette" was the silly name she gave herself--glowered.

He dodged her attempted blow. "Apparently not, lady."

"I am _not_ a lady!" she growled, her eyes flashing with such utter disgust that Batman knew he'd hit a nerve. Unfortunately for her, he'd already learned the hard way not to tempt fate (or her ability to aim), and so before she could unleash a whirlwind of blows he snagged a corner of a nearby roof and propelled himself upwards. She was not about to let him leave without a fight, of course, but luckily for him her thrown staff missed his head by a couple inches. So much for her excellent aim. Perhaps her striking his elbow had been a fluke.

"I'm not going to let you get away that easily!" she shrieked. "One day I'll have that bounty, and your reign of terror on the streets will be over!"

As Batman left the scene, he heard the sound of what could only be someone leaping up for a fire escape, snagging it, and falling. Leastaways that was what he thought--or hoped--it was. Silhouette was short and it was always possible that she had attempted to leap too high. Maybe she would indeed go to the hospital for a few nights and give him some peace... or at least decide to take a few nights off.

**000 Author's Notes 000**

Whoo...I usually have busy Sundays, so I might not alwafys post ("day of rest"? HA! Not for me). However, I've currently written several chapters ahead and so I just have to post this one today.

Round of accolades:

Many thanks to the current reviewers: Dark.Morning, Trimacle, CountryPixie (glad you like tootsie rolls, I love 'em), Almost Funny (twice :D), & Haladflire65. Seeing as you're all repeat reviewers I'd like to thank you twice. :)

A hug to the person who put this story on "alert" status. ;)

Waves to all 171 viewers! Thanks for reading, everybody!


	7. Headlines

**IF THE FOUNDATIONS BE DESTROYED, WHAT CAN THE RIGHTEOUS DO?**

I don't own Batman. DC Comics does.

Please note that violence will occur in this story, and that less offensive words like "damn" will be used, but more offensive words will be "asterisked" out. Some sexuality will occur but never anything explicit. As of now this story is rated "T"--if any readers feel the rating needs to be raised, please contact me accordingly and it will be.

Ohmigosh I've got people wondering who Silhouette is! YAY! Her identity is actually a semi-big part later on in the story, so I'm not giving it away just yet. You can keep guessing. Just don't get too sure of yourselves, now, and be sure to pay attention. Bruce himself is going to start guessing relatively soon. Whether he's right or not will eventually be revealed (am I trying to helpfully nudge you all in another direction by introducing doubt in your minds? Or am I faking 'cause you already figured it out? Mwahahahaaa...).

Also, I did make her up myself (I don't know enough about Batman to bring in canon characters, Almost Funny, though I'm very flattered you'd ask). Rather clumsy for a true comic superheroine, doncha think? Leastaways I hope that was the impression you got or else I didn't do that scene right. She is based on the "fake Batmen" of the Dark Knight movie, people who thought they could turn vigilante by following Batman's example. Although--of course--Silhouette is anti-Batman in sentiment, even though she follows in his wake. She's been plaguing Bruce's nights, hoping for a chance to collect the bounty on his head, for some time now. About the comment she made ("I'm not a lady!"), she's more than a little annoyed that Batman didn't take her seriously as a fighter (I hope that answers the reviewer CountryPixie's wondering). And, after reading that scene, I'm hoping you all understand why Batman thinks the way he does. Now, back to Bruce...

**Chapter Seven: Headlines**

As Bruce stumbled back into the "bat-cave," his head was just beginning to clear from the fog of chemicals that Dr. Crane had seen fit to unleash on him. Obviously, given what affect they had on him, his immunity to the toxins had weakened over time. He still had some of the antidote handy, though--and he might want to re-dose himself, if he were to go hunting after Crane again. But before he did that, he supposed he had better talk to Lucius and ask if that stuff had an expiration date; it wouldn't do to poison himself to avoid poison. Still, where had Crane gotten those chemicals, anyway? So fresh out of Arkham, too...

All these thoughts were gone, however, when he arrived upstairs. Alfred was waiting up for him.

"You're bleeding," the elderly man stated. So calmly. Anyone else would have freaked. Then again, Alfred was probably used to Bruce returning with injuries by now.

Bruce only smiled, as he brought a hand up to his cheek. Yes, some definite wetness there, and his hand came away sticky red.

"You spoke," the billionaire said, as if Alfred's breaking of his unofficial "vow of silence" was more important than any flesh wound. Yes, there was a lot of blood, but head wounds tended to gush far more than normal. Feeling around on the side of his face, Bruce's nimble fingers eventually reached his hairline, where he found the thin, short gash.

Alfred ignored Bruce's happy tone, merely standing wearily and commenting, "I'll call Dr. Norbert."

Immediately Bruce made a face. Alfred looked affronted.

"I don't see what you have against the good doctor." The butler said. Bruce rolled his eyes and mouthed Alfred's next words alongside his older friend, "He's a trustworthy man."

"Not tonight, he isn't," the younger man countered. "If we wake him up this late one more time, he'll probably overdose me with painkillers just to make sure I don't come back."

Alfred made a show of glancing over to the window, where the sun was rising. "I'm sure Dr. Norbert is already well up and about by now."

Deprived of his ready excuse, Bruce quickly formulated another one. "We don't have an appointment."

"That's never stopped us before," Alfred said, his tone having a slight edge. "Come along."

"I haven't slept," the billionaire protested feebly, as his butler advanced to take his arm. It had to be the right arm, too... Bruce winced when Alfred clutched his elbow, but fortunately the older man must have taken this gesture as a sign of displeasure instead of pain. The reminder about his elbow, however, was enough to convince Bruce that Dr. Norbert should be avoided at all costs. He could imagine Alfred's face if news of his formerly-dislocated joint came to light.

"I don't want to," he said, rather lamely. He was falling back on childish pleading in the face of his former guardian. Alfred shook his head.

"You need to see a doctor."

'_You're one to talk,_' Bruce thought abruptly, and before he could stop himself he declared, "Yeah, well so do you."

Almost immediately he regretted it. The older man's eyes darkened, but Bruce knew he was not angry, only upset. And tired, all of a sudden. At that moment, the same moment that Bruce would have done anything--even follow Alfred to Dr. Norbert's office without a single protest--in hopes of undoing what he'd just said, Alfred seemed to grow older and wearier right in front of his eyes, and the elder man wordlessly turned back to sit down in his chair again.

'_Great_,' Bruce berated himself. '_Just brilliant, Mr. Wayne. Do you want to try again for a full home run?_'

Just as thoughtlessly he blurted out, "I met Crane."

Alfred's eyes widened. Though some elements of weariness remained in his frame, he seemed to become more animated. He leaned forward.

"Well, then," he said, "There definitely was a breakout from Arkham."

Some of Alfred's tiredness seemed to be wearing off on Bruce, who acknowledged Alfred's statement with a quiet nod.

"Crane...uh, '_got_' me," the younger man added. As if that could somehow justify his behavior.

Alfred leaned back, his lips tight. "I see. No wonder you didn't want to see Dr. Norbert."

There was silence for a few minutes while they both mulled over their thoughts. It occurred to Bruce that visiting Dr. Norbert--something he normally avoided as much as possible--could have been disastrous this time, if the doctor had somehow figured out he had toxic compounds in his blood. His desire to keep away from the doctor increased tenfold, as he realized that it would probably be harder to hide his "Batman" secret from Dr. Norbert than even he had initially imagined. Who knew what kind of craziness Batman would run into later on in his career? Acid? Radiation? All manner of unhealthy substances... substances that no rich playboy billionaire, no matter how unlucky, was unlikely to ever encounter. If he continued to see Dr. Norbert, his secret would probably have to be revealed, and before the doctor figured it out himself. That was something Bruce was simply unwilling to do.

The silence was broken when Alfred tentatively tried to ask, "Did you also see..."

Bruce knew immediately who and what Alfred was referring to. The Joker. "No, Alfred," he sighed quickly, unable to keep the audible relief from his voice. "No, I didn't."

"Perhaps he's in hiding," the older man suggested. It sounded absurd as he said it.

"Perhaps...he didn't make it out. He could still be at Arkham," Bruce added. But he couldn't stop a nagging feeling that this was just wishful thinking.

Damn...did the Joker need to haunt him even when they hadn't met? Bruce almost wanted to go downstairs and put his mask back on. Batman could handle the fiend; Batman was certainly better at it.

"Maybe the paper will have something," Alfred said quietly. He stood, a motion so slow that it was almost painful to watch. Bruce winced. Had Alfred always risen from chairs in that fashion? Or could it be that their current topic of discussion was taking that much of a toll on Bruce's old friend?

Moments later Bruce found himself sitting patiently (or exhaustedly--it depended on how one looked at it) on a barstool, as Alfred fussed over the cut in his hairline. Out came the needle and thread. The younger man made a game out of it, seeing whether he could stave off his winces. He couldn't see Alfred working, so every stitch came as a complete surprise. Every so often he would hold a cloth up to his cut to soak up any extra blood. He hissed angrily when Alfred dared to apply alcohol without warning him first. Still, after how rude and ungrateful he'd been, Bruce supposed he deserved that.

Alfred was cleaning up when the door opened and Temperance entered. She placed the morning paper before Bruce, who had enough sense to nod thanks before scowling at her presence. He was too focused on unrolling the news to notice Temperance's frown when she saw the bloody washcloth where he'd left it, on the table in front of him.

A single, bold headline had Bruce's immediate attention.

**MAYOR DENIES ARKHAM BREAKOUT**

_'Now why would Garcia do that?'_ Bruce felt the beginnings of a headache, and not just from the stitches that Alfred had finished sewing. He'd been up for almost two days, with perhaps four hours of sleep in the last forty-eight. Now was not the time to question what went on in the head of Gotham's most competent mayor of the past century. Bruce desperately needed sleep, but he was loath to walk up the stairs. Perhaps he should have an elevator installed. Or at least move his bedroom to the ground floor. Eyes drooping, he let them wander down the newspaper's rim, but they did not reach the edge before they were caught on a second headline:

**D.A. STARTS INQUEST **

_With the support of Councilman Barnes, D.A. Alejandra Huerta has begun the initial stages of an inquest into the cases of well over a hundred "criminals" of Gotham. Hundreds of supposed mobsters, thieves, drug dealers and pimps are slated to have an in-depth second look at their cases, as well as the chance for freedom itself. What would all these supposed thugs have in common? Two words: the "Bat Man." Every one of these men was brought into custody following their incapacitation by the caped crusader--and apparently that is cause enough to question whether they were legitimately engaged in crime. Says Huerta, "It's already been established that the Bat Man himself is a criminal of epic proportions, the committer of at least seven known cold-blooded murders. With such an illegal 'vigilante' doing all the work of capturing these supposed lawbreakers, one has to question: are they what he claimed them to be? After all, it is possible that the Bat Man himself might even secretly belong to one of the multiple criminal organizations, and used his former 'hero' status to ensure others from rival gangs were locked away." Other questions that need answering have to do with police conduct while collecting these potential criminals. Were the officials overly brutal while subduing these subjects? Were the proper procedures of evidence and prosecution followed during their trials? Were these men even read their Miranda Rights before being taken into official police custody? Were they **(con't pg. A4)**_

Bruce threw the paper down in disgust, not even noticing the way Temperance jumped, startled, as he did. He needed to sleep. Maybe in the evening he'd feel less inclined to give Huerta a piece of Batman's mind. That is, if he even woke up in time for today's evening.

**000 Author's Notes 000**

Hugs all around! To my reviewers: vballmania23, Almost Funny, Trimacle, Thedarkknight17, Mickerayla, Heir to the World, CountryPixie, Cricket Spinner, Haladflire65, & Naga! Twice to repeat reviewers: vballmania23, Almost Funny, Trimacle, Thedarkknight17, CountryPixie, & Haladflire65!

To read is to fulfill the story's purpose, to comment is to generate author giddiness.

Also pats on the back to the person who added this story to their favorites, the 5 people who put this story on alert, the one person who put me on their "author alert" list, and all 151 viewers of the last chapter. Many thanks to all. ;)


	8. Dreams

**IF THE FOUNDATIONS BE DESTROYED, WHAT CAN THE RIGHTEOUS DO?**

I don't own Batman. DC Comics does.

Please note that violence will occur in this story, and that less offensive words like "damn" will be used, but more offensive words will be "asterisked" out. Some sexuality will occur but never anything explicit. As of now this story is rated "T"--if any readers feel the rating needs to be raised, please contact me accordingly and it will be.

I'm hesitant to post this now, but I can't afford to post it later on in the story. So here you go.

**Chapter Eight: Dreams**

"Rachel!" Bruce yelled. "Rachel, wait up!"

The dark-haired girl ahead of him paused only to give her friend a mischievous glance. Then she was off again, scrambling up the hillside. Bruce was after her, huffing with effort, but he had a distinct disadvantage: if he became dirty in his current state of dress, his mother would never let him hear the end of it. As such he moved much more cautiously--and slowly--a fact that the girl was using to her benefit.

"Told you I could beat you up here," she said haughtily. "I win."

"That's not fair," the boy protested a moment later, as he clambered up beside her. "You cheated."

She stuck her tongue out, a move that he copied back to her. "Did not."

Bruce was about to counter with a "did too," but then his blue eyes caught sight of a rare phenomenon: the wide, unobstructed entrance of the garden's southwestern corner. The outer door was open. This door was always supposed to be shut, locked tight, and for good reason--a reason that even Bruce, with his limited childhood understanding, knew was quite valid. It opened up into an alleyway full of...what had his father called them? Oh, yeah--"_unsavory people._"

Rachel followed his eyes to view the sight herself. She grabbed Bruce's arm when he started down the other side of the hill.

"C'mon," she said. "Let's go get Mr. Alfred. He'll fix it."

"We can shut it ourselves," Bruce told her.

She shook her head. "No, let's go get Alfred."

"What, are you scared?" The boy challenged her. Her eyes narrowed. As if daring him to repeat himself, she immediately pushed past him and headed for the door at a near-run.

"Didn't think so," Bruce grinned. He tore after her. It was always easier going down a hill, rather than up.

They both stopped short of the actual entrance, standing side by side, silently. Now that they were so close, the door seemed to take on a much more mysterious and menacing character. Neither wanted to touch it, let alone be near it. After all, Bruce thought wildly, it might somehow hurt them--if they tried to shut it, who knew what it could do? Maybe the door could shove them outside the safety of the garden's walls and lock itself. Maybe their hands would stick to the door like a fly on flypaper, leaving them helpless and exposed for any crook to snatch up. Maybe it would do something even worse.

"It's just a stupid door," said Rachel suddenly. Bruce knew then that she'd been thinking the same terrible things that he had. When Rachel, despite her declaration, made no move to touch the door herself, Bruce squared his shoulders. He was the boy, after all. Boys were supposed to be brave and strong, right?

"I'll shut it," he said, stepping forward. Rachel made no move to help him, but she cautiously trailed behind, using him as a barrier between the offending object and herself. '_Stupid scared girl,_' Bruce taunted mentally, attempting to make himself sound brave in his own mind, but the thought barely helped. The closer he got the larger the door seemed to loom. As soon as he touched it he jerked his hand back (Rachel paled at this)--yet his movement was not because the door had somehow shocked him, but instead because he hadn't expected it to feel so damp. Feeling slightly braver now, Bruce clutched the wooden frame tighter and pulled. With a loud, effortful groan, the door swung forward.

Let it never be said that Bruce was without his sense of curiosity, however. He had never been allowed to see what lay outside this particular entrance. While he swung the door, therefore, he paused to peek outside. Rachel let out a disturbed--and, he thought, irate--squeak at this.

His eyes met a relatively clean street, free of litter, with the paint still bright and fresh-looking on the pavement. The buildings looked to be in fair repair, all in red brick. To the far right one of them had a smashed and taped window, but that was the worst of the disorder. One long, green bench was bolted down to the corner of the road, flanked by two trash cans and a large metal sign. A bus stop.

This place didn't look "unsavory." What was wrong with the people who lived here? Why didn't his father like them? Bruce's father liked most other people, even ones who were poor and mean. Why was this place any different?

Only at that moment did he notice the bench had an occupant. Though he hadn't noticed this fellow at first, it was obvious that the other had seen Bruce the second he had stuck his head out. This stranger was a boy--no, a _teenager_, one of those amazing half-adult people that children Bruce's age held in a state of self-conscious awe. The teenager was wearing a plaid shirt, knee-length jeans, and had slightly oily dirty-blonde hair, which was wavy and disorderly, as if it could not decide whether it wanted to be straight or have tight little curls. One of his feet was missing a shoe. Quietly and inconspicuously, scrunched up and hunched forwards, he sat at the very edge of the bench's corner, his elbows on his knees and his hands crossed in a guarded position. His shape made Bruce uncomfortably recall how Rachel's pet cat looked when she spotted a mouse. Bruce also felt slightly unnerved when he met the stranger's sharp brown eyes, which were locked on Bruce's face, almost as if studying him. Still, the teen made no movement, threatening or otherwise.

Somehow, though, Bruce thought recognized an emotion in the stranger's brown eyes. Curiosity. The same feeling that had caused the boy to look out in the first place. For a moment the two males regarded one another, saying nothing, but each observing the other as if there were nothing else of interest in the whole wide world.

"Hey, Rachel," Bruce said at last. "There's somebody out here..."

Something cold on his forehead jerked Bruce Wayne away from the door, away from Rachel, away from his childhood altogether, and most of all away from the mysterious stranger. As he stirred he had the vague notion that the teenager had been anything but friendly, but the harder he tried to hold on to that face and the probing brown eyes the faster the image melted from his mind. He opened his own blue eyes to find Alfred shaking a thermometer.

"Open up," the butler said calmly. "Apparently some of your immunity to Dr. Crane's lovely cocktail has worn off."

"I was having a good dream," Bruce grunted, "Rachel was--_gurgh_--"

"You can tell me all about it in a few minutes," Alfred told him as he shoved the thermometer into Bruce's open mouth, reaching down to reposition the ice pack he'd settled on his master's forehead.

Those few minutes were an eternity, however. Bruce found the last remnants of his dream were slipping from his mind. When the thermometer was removed he stayed quiet.

"102.7 degrees. And you've been resting, too." Alfred frowned. "I'll see about Lucius getting you another antidote. Now, the dream?"

"What? Oh...right," Bruce tried to mentally rewind back to his state of sleep. "Uh...did Rachel and I ever wander over to the southwestern gate? When it was open?"

"Goodness yes," said Alfred immediately, his tired eyes brightening. "I'd be surprised that you'd remember that, you were so little at the time, but I suppose your father made that incident memorable enough."

"Wha...I mean, how?"

"He was damned angry, that's how," Alfred chuckled. "Never saw him go quite that red in the face before. He always treated you like you were fragile, Bruce. But not that time. You almost even got a spanking--did you know? Your mother managed to convince him not to, not while you were in those fancy clothes at the moment, but by the time you all got home that evening he was too tired to punish you, and in the morning after that all his anger had evaporated. Lucky for you."

Then the butler sobered. "Still, I can't say I would have blamed him, if he had given you a thrashing."

Bruce mulled over that statement for a few seconds, and was about to ask what Alfred meant, but the older man had already stood and was halfway out the door.

"Get some rest, Master Bruce, you will be better by tomorrow morning."

'_Tomorrow morning,'_ Bruce mused. What time was it now? Why, oh, why, did he not have an analog clock in his room? He'd have one installed tomorrow morning, he decided, whenever that was. Rolling over, he plunged back into dreamless sleep.

**000 Author's Notes 000**

After writing this chapter I must say I'm rather sorry that they killed Rachel off in the movie. I think she would be fun to write as an adult, but unfortunately she's dead in this timeline. I mean, I understand _why_ the writers of the movie did kill her, because that was awesomely dramatic, but it does deprive me of a ready-made female heroine. Ah, well, one will be introduced soon. And then, the Joker! Dun dun DUN...

Not much happened here, I know. But I couldn't just let Bruce get gassed and have nothing happen, could I? Don't worry, I won't kill him off...right now. (cue evil laugh)

As for how much of the dream sequence is real, or who else was in it (hint hint)...will we ever know? (cackles again)

Accolades:

WOW! Lots of reviews for the past chapter. Many thanks to the reviewers: Almost Funny, Thedarkknight17, Csillan.Rose, Mickerayla, Dark.Morning, Heir to the World, SKY, CountryPixie, & Haladflire65. Give yourselves a round of applause for all being repeat reviewers. I'm surprised how many people are sticking to this story.

Hugs to the fellow who put this story on alert, and another hug to the guy (gal?) who added me to their author alert list.

YAY to all 166 viewers! You are da best!

Free digital lollipops all around! XD


	9. Identities

**IF THE FOUNDATIONS BE DESTROYED, WHAT CAN THE RIGHTEOUS DO?**

I don't own Batman. DC Comics does.

Please note that violence will occur in this story, and that less offensive words like "damn" will be used, but more offensive words will be "asterisked" out. Some sexuality will occur but never anything explicit. As of now this story is rated "T"--if any readers feel the rating needs to be raised, please contact me accordingly and it will be.

Oooh, some people started questioning who the teenager was in Bruce's dream last time. I'll just say that he's not an original character. You may now commence hypothesizing/squealing/drooling/yelling at me for whatever it's worth. Of course, you're all always free to do that. XD

Everything comes together, as I've said. Bruce and Alfred's relationship is a bit tense right now because whatever's wrong with Alfred is causing a rift between them. Alfred is the kind who wants to care for others but not have others worry about him--just like Bruce, who was raised by him and therefore has many of Alfred's characteristics, both good and bad. I hope this answers one of reviewer gaap237's questions. :)

**Chapter Nine: Identities**

**TROUBLE AT ARKHAM?  
_Montana Payton._  
**_I'M not one for conspiracy theories, as all my loyal readers know, but this one should be suspicious to every man, woman, and child on the streets of Gotham. Approximately four days ago, just on the northern border of town, all of Arkham Asylum was placed under lockdown. No member of the Arkham staff will tell why. No city official will comment. The Mayor's office says nothing. And in the meantime, we journalists have several dozen members of the police force who are all-too willing to tell us what happened, but on the condition of absolute anonymity. It seems Gotham's best and brightest are afraid to lose their jobs--simply because they tell the public the truth, which Mayor Garcia is currently hastening to sweep under a rock..._

Huh. Who knew that Montana Payton could write anything remotely useful? Let alone take a break from her daily bashing of Wayne Industries and the son of its founder? Bruce found himself shaking his head in amazement. He'd found out, after pulling a few strings, that it had been Montana who had pushed the "Gotham's Report" to investigate the possibility of an Arkham breakout. Mayor Garcia had been keeping the whole thing hush-hush until Montana had started nosing around. Now the rumor mill was grinding, and there was the hopeful possibility that the Mayor would come clean in order to wipe out some of the really nasty gossip flying around town. Apparently Bruce's offhand comment to Montana--_"Shouldn't you be out covering Arkham or something?"_--had made the young journalist just suspicious enough to go looking for herself. And here she was now, devoting an entire Sunday article to the Arkham fiasco as it currently stood, instead of lambasting "playboy Bruce Wayne" for wasting the heart and soul of Gotham on cars and girls.

Bruce decided to enjoy the off-day. Tomorrow Montana would probably be back to slamming him with a vengeance, probably even more than usual to make up for the lack of bashing in her current column.

There had been no news of the Joker. In three days nobody had seen hide nor hair of him. Bruce was beginning to doubt that the Joker had been one of the Arkham escapees. After all, wouldn't the clown have put something terrible together and executed it within the past few days of his freedom?

As for why Garcia did not want anyone to believe Arkham had been breached, the answer to that question had literally dropped into Bruce's lap. His blissful sleep two days ago had been interrupted by a phone call, which had been delivered by--who else?--Temperance. This had put him in a foul enough mood, but he had managed to control himself enough to sound cordial, and awake, over the phone. The call had been from one of the Mayor's secretaries, finalizing the decision for Bruce to play host to the European Ambassador.

Now that he thought about it, Bruce could nearly slap himself. Of course the Mayor would want to keep a big criminal outbreak from the general populace! A foreign diplomat was about to grace Gotham with his presence for over a week! Not even New York City had been given the chance to play host to this delegation, and it was an honor that everyone, including Bruce, was taking seriously. News that Gotham's streets were swarming with criminals of the worst kind was not conductive to "diplomatic relations."

Right now Bruce and Alfred were being driven by Toby, their limousine part of the Mayor's procession to the airport. There, Bruce could finally meet the ambassador who was imposing himself on Wayne Manor for the next few days. The same Ambassador who made it so necessary for the Mayor to lie to the public. And, for the life of him, Bruce found he couldn't decide whether he agreed with the Mayor's decision or not. Wasn't honesty the best policy? But, to think of how being connected to the outer world in such an important way would affect Gotham's mindset... let alone to imagine what denial of this foreign delegation would do to Gotham's reputation, at home and abroad. It wasn't just Garcia's head on the chopping block. It was possibly part of the heart of Gotham's citizenry themselves.

Still... part of him, a large part, was actually rooting for Montana and the papers. If they would only reveal that yes, Arkham had indeed suffered a breakout, then Bruce wouldn't have to trouble himself whether it was right for the Mayor to hide it from the public any longer, simply because there would be nothing left to hide.

In the seat beside Bruce, Temperance shifted when the limousine hit a particularly hard bump.

Bruce noticed that Alfred was looking away and took that moment to glare at the petite redhead. She only gave him a disapproving, _tut tut_, sort of look, though her bespeckled freckles managed to make her look more like a schoolgirl than a chastizing motherly figure. There was no getting away from the chill contained in her bright green eyes, however. Alfred had somehow managed to convince Bruce to bring her along...but just barely. Normally Alfred would never have gotten away with even suggesting this idea, but that morning he'd apparently had another one of his extremely difficult coughing attacks while coming home from his weekly Mass. After looking up from his paper to see Alfred staggering into the sitting room, declaring he was totally fine and only needed to sit down for a while, Bruce was not willing to deny his butler anything.

'_She's here for Alfred,_' Bruce told himself. '_I'm doing this for Alfred. My best friend._'

Alfred looked away again--Bruce took the opportunity to give Temperance another glare, which she disdainfully declined to react to.

'_My only friend,_' Bruce corrected himself.

Once the limousine pulled to a stop, Bruce rushed out of the vehicle before Temperance, unwilling to spend a second longer in close confines with her than he must. He gave a moment's thought to spitefully shutting the door behind him. Dare he trap her in the car? But no--a quick check revealed that Alfred _was_ looking, so Bruce held it open for her. The perfect picture of a gentleman.

Unfortunately for him Temperance couldn't seem to give him a break. One of her high heels was caught in the remnants of a pothole that lay just outside the limousine's frame: she tipped forward, and Bruce was forced to automatically catch her wrist to stop her from toppling into him. How would that look if a photographer was nearby? Yet Temperance was anything but grateful, of course--she gruffly and tensely yanked her arm back, using her free hand to smooth back her hair, which was always in that dark clip, and pursed her lips angrily. Bruce caught a flash of something in her emerald eyes... utter disgust, he realized. He was offended. '_Well, _excuse_ me,_' he thought.

"You're welcome," he said aloud, a hint of something bordering on anger in his voice. She merely inclined her head, looking down, not at him--something he would have thought to be very unusual for Temperance, who always looked people calmly in the eye, but that he was beginning to experience from her more often--and quickly walked on past him to assume her post beside Alfred. The butler had a look of confusion on his face while watching their interaction. As Bruce walked past his old friend and said friend's "helper," he thought he heard a small, soft voice say, _"I can't believe I just did that."_ Then again, he decided, it could have been the wind. There was no way Temperance could ever feel remorse.

But... something about that look of disgust in her eyes had been familiar. Where had he seen it before?

Silhouette, of course.

The connection began to dawn in his mind. Silhouette, who had only showed up in the past eight weeks. Temperance had been working at Wayne Manor for only the last ten, having immigrated directly from England. Silhouette was short, even for a woman, as was Temperance. They both had green eyes. And Silhouette's thick black mask covered every inch of her head, aside from the eyes, so of course he wouldn't be able to see Temperance's fiery red hair...

'_Coincidences? I think **not**._' Bruce thought darkly.

Still, it wasn't like he could fire her right away. Alfred wouldn't like that at all. This did give him the perfect excuse to give to Alfred, of course ("_you know that woman you hired to help you? Temperance? She's been trying to kidnap me for the bounty. Can I fire her now, please?_"). Or maybe not so perfect. There was just one itty bitty problem...

Bruce hadn't told Alfred about Silhouette.

It was just one of the many ways Bruce "protected" his aging friend. Bad enough that Alfred had to worry about Bruce getting shot or killed by mobsters and gangs--to know that his young friend had a fellow vigilante scouring the city for him? That was almost as bad as having the Joker targeting him all over again, if he thought about it.

So, now, he just had that one problem to solve. How to tell Alfred that he'd been lying to him? He could start by showing Alfred his elbow. "_See what your 'helper' did to me?_"

On second thought, scratch that. He'd never, ever show Alfred his elbow. Otherwise Alfred would drag him to Dr. Norbert. Bruce didn't think he could stand that waiting room one more time. What sort of man kept the most famous man in Gotham holed up for hours in a waiting room? Besides, his elbow had been healing nicely. It still twinged, of course, and he didn't dare overuse it, but the last few days of inactivity--especially the ones where he'd been able to use his slight fever, courtesy of Dr. Crane, as the perfect excuse to sleep in--had done it good. The fever was gone now, and his excuse with it, but now his elbow could stand small amounts of work and strain. A few weeks more, and it would be good as new. Until then...

There had to be some other way to tell Alfred about Silhouette. One that left his elbow out of the matter.

Unfortunately Bruce would have to think of a plan later. The ambassador's plane was arriving. Bruce had the sudden inkling that his life was about to become even more complicated.

**000 Author's Note 000**

Hugs to all reviewers: Dark.Morning, Mickerayla (epiphanies welcome, wink wink), dead2self (loves penname), CountryPixie, anonymousfog, Haladflire65, & gaap237. Double hugs to all repeat reviewers: Dark.Morning, Mickerayla, CountryPixie, & Haladflire65. You guys keep comin' back for more, eh?

More hugs go to the 3 people who put this story on their favorites, the 2 who put it on alert, and a free pair of sunglasses to the guy (gal?) who put me on their "favorite author" list.

Drinks all around. No alcohol, sorry, but you can have punch with that foamy sherbert stuff in it. ;)


	10. Complications

**IF THE FOUNDATIONS BE DESTROYED, WHAT CAN THE RIGHTEOUS DO?**

I don't own Batman. DC Comics does.

Please note that violence will occur in this story, and that less offensive words like "damn" will be used, but more offensive words will be "asterisked" out. Some sexuality will occur but never anything explicit. As of now this story is rated "T"--if any readers feel the rating needs to be raised, please contact me accordingly and it will be.

**Chapter Ten: Complications**

As the plane landed, and the preparations were made for the ambassador to descend, Mayor Garcia kept looking around frantically, asking everyone present whether or not he looked appropriate. He had worked his way through most of the assembly and was about to ask Bruce's opinion when the plane door opened. The first figure highlighted in the opening was a tall, thin man, dressed in what almost appeared to be a formal police uniform, but it was of a style that no Gotham cop would ever be caught dead in, let alone alive. _Frills?_ Bruce questioned mentally. This couldn't be the ambassador, could it?

The tall, thin, reedy man saluted. For a moment he stood completely still. Bruce felt like an idiot merely by watching him, but held his tongue. Maybe this "Small Eastern European Country" that had the potential of being carpeted was populated by stone people. Maybe frills, in their minds, were manly. Either way Bruce was beginning to believe the ambassador's stay at his home would rankle his nerves in far too many ways to be healthy.

"I present her ladyship," said the thin reed man, his English almost overwhelmed with some unidentifiable exotic accent, "Ambassador Giedre."

'_Ladyship?_' Bruce realized abruptly, turning to glance questioningly at Garcia. The Mayor's eyes were clouded over with confusion. They had both apparently been under the impression that the ambassador would be male. Perhaps there had somehow been a mistake?

When the ambassador actually did make an appearance, it was somewhat anticlimactic. Not that she wasn't pretty--medium height for a woman, soft brown eyes, and quite dark skin for a caucasian all stood out as her defining features--but she was not dressed in any formal attire other than an average businesswoman's pantsuit. After seeing the reed-like man's clothing, Bruce would have bet his fortune that the ambassador also would have worn some foreign outfit; yet, if he had, he would now be penniless.

Fortunately this was one time when Garcia was entirely competent. Stepping forward after attempting--and unfortunately failing--to smooth his windblown hair, the Mayor smiled warmly and simpered out a greeting. While the formalities were being exchanged Bruce stood quietly in line, awaiting for his turn to give out a handshake. It was only when Ambassador Giedre turned to the reed-man, saying in a soft voice, "_Thank you, Jurgis,_" that Bruce found himself paying abrupt attention.

There was something... something familiar about her, but he couldn't quite place it. Her looks? No, he decided, she looked decidedly foreign and out-of-place in his mind. He hadn't met anyone who shared her appearance, and he certainly hadn't met her before. Her voice? No--that was too clouded with an accent, though a lesser extent than the reedy man. Her clothes were ordinary and not important enough to gage his interest. Her statement had likewise been too bland to conjure up this feeling of indescribable familiarity...

She was moving down the line now, shaking the hand of each of Gotham's high and mighty. Councilman Barnes pumped her arm energetically, sputtering how glad he was to make her acquaintance, and she raised a thin eyebrow before gingerly removing her hand from his grip and continuing on. Bruce felt a slight thrill at Barnes' rejection--this was the man who attempted to make Batman's life hell, after all, by placing that bounty on his head. Barnes had made a career out of bashing Batman for publicity. Now, he looked completely put out as the ambassador moved on down the line before he could finish his self-serving flattery.

Next was Commissioner Gordon. He put on his thin-lipped smile under his mustache, as warm as Bruce had ever seen it, and looked her right in the eye while he took her proffered hand. Gordon was turning out to be quite the good city servant. Many people, mostly the distasteful ones, had raised Cain about several of his policies, but Gordon had weathered their disgruntled disapproval and was even now making changes in the quality of police roaming the streets. Bruce approved of everything he did; but, always cautious of his double life being exposed, when without his mask he also tended to avoid Gordon whenever possible. Therefore he'd made no move to stand anywhere near the commissioner today. Hopefully Gordon would not take Bruce's sometimes obvious attempts to keep away from him as an insult. The Commissioner was too good-natured to show it, though, so Bruce had no way of knowing what he thought.

Then the D.A., Alejandra Huerta. She stood next to Bruce (and had given out an excited squeak when she noticed this, although she had tried to cover it quickly). Her right hand was bandaged, so she had to smile apologetically while offering her left instead. Vaguely, Bruce found himself wondering what had happened to her. Had she collided into someone else in the Mayor's building and not come away unscathed from the encounter? Had she carried too many gossip magazines, all of which conveniently had large articles on him, and sprained her hand with their weight? After his literal "run-in" with Huerta near the Mayor's office, Bruce had placed a few quiet inquiries about her in the right sets of ears, the kind that had wagging mouths attached to them which were all too willing to tell him everything (mainly, this meant Marishka, who always had the latest rumors on everyone of even relative importance). He'd learned quite quickly that Huerta was one of his fans, of the most devoted caliber, who looked upon the list of women who frequented with him with a sense of petty jealousy. There was one rumor that she had a file full of articles on him in her office, but Bruce suspected (or hoped) that this was only a rumor, for it seemed rather creepy.

"And here's Mr. Wayne, our resident billionaire," Mayor Garcia introduced, guesturing grandly.

"Pleased to meet you," Bruce said cordially, gifting the ambassador with his most winning smile, and her lips twisted upwards back.

"The son of Thomas Wayne?" Giedre said. "It is I who am pleased."

Their palms met. A quick shake, not too firm, not too limp. Bruce was surprised: she gripped harder than him. Again... familiar, the way she held his hand, the way she shook with a flick of the wrist instead of up-and-down with the elbow, how she smiled... her brown eyes met his blue ones. He had seen that personality behind other eyes. Suddenly the familiarity had a name.

Rachel.

Giedre walked, talked, and acted almost exactly like Rachel.

'_How is it possible?'_ Bruce wondered. How could someone born in a different year, on the other side of the world, to a different country, language, and culture, be so alike to his Rachel? Out of nowhere Rachel's doppelganger had appeared, if not in appearance then certainly in deed, and of all places for her to be at the moment she stood in Gotham. It was as if Rachel lived again. Almost as if she stood in front of him. What were the chances of it all?

Only a quick handshake, and Giedre, Rachel's double, had moved on. She shook the hand of the councilman on Bruce's left, leaving the billionaire stuck in his thoughts of his lost friend. At just the right moment he stirred himself back to awareness, taking a quick glance at Giedre as she moved down the line, and at that same moment she glanced back at him. For less than a second, their eyes met again, but that was all it took. Bruce had a sudden ache in his heart. Rachel, who would never smile on him again--in this life, anyway--had almost seemed to be looking back at him, through eyes that were most certainly not her own. It was bizarre and more than a little spooky.

He was still lost in these thoughts as more formalities were exchanged, and he didn't have the wits to be amused and pleased when Huerta made a mad dash for her car, claiming to have business to attend to, and ran full-force into an unsuspecting Temperance. For a moment the two petite women had stood there, two equally matched statures on a stand-off, glaring into each other's green eyes. The standoff endured a few seconds, until Huerta seemed to be unnerved enough by Temperance's utterly hostile demeanor that she quickly excused herself to dash even faster toward her ride. Alfred, shaking his head at the scene, herded Temperance back to Toby's limousine.

Bruce, for his part, held the door open for Giedre as she stepped into the car.

"You'll be staying at Wayne Manor, Ambassador," he told her cordially, and she smiled.

"It's Giedre, Mr. Wayne."

He nodded, hoping that he didn't seem hopelessly confused. Rachel's smile on unfamiliar lips unnerved him.

"Then feel free to call me Bruce, Giedre. Practically everyone else does, anyway."

**000 d da dar dark dark k dark kn dark kni dark knig dark knigh dark knight 000**

The sky had just turned dark as Commissioner Gordon set down his last cup of daily coffee, utterly exhausted. Even the caffeine wasn't keeping him awake these days. The Mayor's policy of silence was giving him a terrible set of migraines. How was he to chase a good two dozen insane escapees, when he couldn't even rely on the people of Gotham? They did not know (for sure, anyway--_somehow_the papers were already harboring rumors about Arkham) about the breakout, so how would they be able to phone in any sightings? Jamie seemed to understand what was troubling him, for as she stopped in to hand him another dose of the useless coffee she gave him a commiserating look. Gordon could only smile to himself--Jamie looked so much like his wife at that age, it was uncanny. He should start packing for the trip home. As he tossed his previous styrofoam cup into the trash, however, he groaned when he saw the name of a file revealed underneath its rim.

"Jamie," he called, as she was halfway out the door. She paused. "Could you go fetch Baldassare? If he's here. If not just leave it, I'll just tell him in the morning."

John Baldassare, on the job for the past year and still a "rookie" by Gotham's standards, had joined the police after a staunch in the army. Having loved the adventure and occasional exhilaration of his assignment to Iraq, he'd returned home to a wife and young son who wanted their husband and father at home more often. So he had ended his term of duty, moved to the single most crime-ridden city in the world, and joined the police force. Nothing could keep Baldassare from action--he seemed to thrive on excitement, often acting single-handedly in dangerous situations. Upon occasion this troubled Gordon, who dreaded ever giving news of Baldassare's death to his doting family. At the moment, though, due to the combination of his foreign origins (he was from Boston), his previous employment, and his deceptively unassuming and quiet attitude, he was now one of "cleanest" cops in Gotham, and was quickly becoming one of Gordon's most trusted men after the fiasco involving Harvey Dent and Rachel Dawes.

Jamie was gone almost immediately on her task. Now alone, Gordon sighed and raised the new cup to his lips. Baldassare rarely worked late. He was a family man, after all, so hopefully he'd already be on his way home. Then Gordon wouldn't have to spend twenty minutes explaining and discussing the new case file in front of him.

Gordon's weary sight strayed to his open window, where a lurking shadow with blue eyes was waiting. The Commissioner involuntarily sucked up a large mouthful of hot coffee. Fortunately for him, it didn't go into his lungs, for he would have been humiliated by bursting into a coughing fit in the presence of the Bat Man. No matter how often the masked man appeared to him, as quiet and sudden as a spectre, Gordon was still surprised each and every time. It was against his being to behave differently, for Gordon could never become a constantly suspicious and guarded individual. He was too open-hearted, too sympathetic to others, and too gentle-natured, though sometimes these qualities had caused him great difficulty in his job.

"There's been rumors," said the Bat Man, his deep voice so soft that Gordon had to strain to hear. Sometimes the Commissioner had wondered who his mysterious visitor was, especially at the beginning of their strange relationship, but the only feature that stood out on the masked man was his unmatchable voice. Gordon had long ago given up trying to assign an identity to the fellow, though every so often the question returned to his mind. Tonight, he was too tired to speculate.

"There has," said the Commissioner, reaching into his desk. Where had he put that paper?

"I don't like what they say," said the visitor. "I don't suppose you could enlighten me on how true they are."

"All rumors have a bit of truth," Gordon admitted. He could say that much.

By now the Bat Man had left his perch on the windowsill and stood before the Commissioner's desk. He placed his hands on the tabletop, leaning forward slightly in the tremors of some emotion ('_rage?'_ thought Gordon, '_determination? And...fear?'_).

"The _Joker?_" the name was snarled as the Bat Man pronounced it. Inwardly Gordon winced and allowed himself a moment to feel sorry for anyone--even a mass murderer--whose name was spoken so vehemently by the man before him.

"We know surprisingly little. There was an explosion in the inner bowels of Arkham... not all the bodies have been identified, or even discovered, but we're working on it. There's a lot of rubble to shift. Most of the inmates have been moved to other locations, and after all the chaos we're still trying to sort out who is where." Gordon swallowed. Here was the part where he could lose his job. Still, this was the Bat Man, and if he was discovered passing information to _him_then losing his job would not be the worst of his worries. "It's pretty certain that several dozen of the inmates escaped, however. The number of discovered bodies and moved inmates doesn't--couldn't--add up to the original number of Arkham residents. And there's been some sightings...did you know Dr. Crane is loose?"

The Bat Man gave no reply, except for lips pressed tight in frustration. "_He_ could have escaped, then?"

Gordon had found what he was searching for in his desk. He slapped a day-old edition of "Gotham's Report" on the counter. In small yet bold letters, one of the inner headlines announced, **MAN FOUND KNIFED IN ALLEY**.

"Check the papers," Gordon warned. "The papers, whether they understand it or not, are telling us what we need to know."

**000 Author's Notes 000**

A bit from Gordon's view. I liked his character, so I thought I'd write from his perspective a little. Hope you don't mind the change--this is supposed to be Bruce's story, though there will be some shifting of perspectives a little later on.

Many thanks again to my reviewers: Thedarkknight17, dead2self (I understand your frustration), running in circles (yes, right now Bruce's goals are very short-term XP), Dark.Morning (craziness is next to happiness, I hope), Mickerayla (Montana was actually too tall to be Silhouette, sorry :(), Heir to the World (lips are sealed, sorry), CountryPixie, & Haladflire65.

Hugs to repeat reviewers...which means all of you. ;)

Thanks also to the 2 people who put this story in their favorites, the two who put it on alert, and the fellow who added me to their "favorite authors." Hugs.

Also a shout-out to all 132 viewers of the last chapter.


	11. Conversations

**IF THE FOUNDATIONS BE DESTROYED, WHAT CAN THE RIGHTEOUS DO?**

I don't own Batman. DC Comics does.

Please note that violence will occur in this story, and that less offensive words like "damn" will be used, but more offensive words will be "asterisked" out. Some sexuality will occur but never anything explicit. As of now this story is rated "T"--if any readers feel the rating needs to be raised, please contact me accordingly and it will be.

When Bruce says Giedre acts like Rachel, that means that she had all the habits and mannerisms of his old friend. Think of, for example, the way a comedian can mime someone just by using facial tics and things of that sort. The Joker during the "Dark Knight" movie has a habit of licking his lips--that'd be his specific mannerism. Giedre has all the same mannerisms as Rachel, even though they look nothing alike, which is why Bruce was so confused at first: familiar mannerisms on a completely unfamiliar face.

Also, Giedre is perhaps two or three years older than Rachel, who was the same age as Bruce, so technically Rachel should be considered _her_ double, except because Bruce knew Rachel first he thinks of Giedre as "Rachel's double." This really has no bearing on the story, but I just wanted to blather about it anyway. XO

To "CountryPixie" and anyone wondering: I'm trying (and possibly succeeding, possibly not, but oh well) to base Garcia's character off what little we saw of him in "Dark Knight." In the movie, Garcia is said to have run on a platform of "reform", but he's unwilling to agree to the mass conviction of the mob because of the rate of appeals, until Harvey Dent says to him "think of all you could do with X months of clean streets." Basically I saw that as saying, "it could get you re-elected"--and only after that does Garcia agree that the entire mob should be put to trial; he further tells Dent that these trials will be on Dent's head (hence absolving him of any political fallout). Because of this Garcia simply isn't an idealist, in the sense that Rachel, Harvey, and Bruce are: he's going to help clean up Gotham, but only when it helps him (politically, that is). On the other hand, he probably didn't involve himself with organized crime (or else his running on "reform" might not have satisfied voters enough to elect him), and he did have the guts to appear at the former commissioner's funeral despite the Joker's death threat. So, as a character, he is really a mixed bag. Readers should remember also that this is from Bruce's perspective, so his view of the Mayor is tainted by how the Mayor acts around him. Because Bruce is so rich and powerful, Garcia wants him within his own political camp, and therefore sucks up to him all the time, which makes him appear weak in Bruce's eyes. We'll see more of Bruce's musings on Garcia in chapter 12.

Also, to "Almost Funny": while the idea that Temperance and Huerta are secretly twins switching off playing Silhouette is a really inventive theory, and I give you extra points for originality, I feel obligated to comment. "Remember Temperance Yates" is a redhead with freckles from England, where her past is unknown. Huerta, meanwhile, is of at least partly Mexican descent (hence her ethnic name: "Alejandra Huerta"), which would make her facial features and overall skin tone at least slightly different. Their similar statures and shared green eye color is coincidence...or a sign that I lack some creativity in creating characters (you choose XD). Sorry to burst your bubble. :(

To "dead2self": that "feeling" you have is quite right. ;D Gettin' close now...

**Chapter Eleven: Conversations**

"You know, Brucie, what really bothers me? When people pay no attention. I mean, what up with _that?_ Why do people even sit near somebody if they aren't going to listen to them? It can just be so frustrating, I just want to scream and scream. You know what that feels like, right? Of course you do. People don't pay enough attention to you, either..."

Marishka was prattling on and on, switching from subject to subject, and fortunately for Bruce he caught enough of what topic she was currently on to obediently nod his head. She seemed to take this as an acknowledgement not only of his attention but also as his agreement to her angst.

"That's what I like about you, Brucie. You understand me. You're my best friend, you know that? You're--_oh, what the is _she_ wearing?_"

At her sudden exclamation, Bruce was startled into lifting his head and glancing about for the mysterious "she" who had dared to be seen by the ever-fashionable style queen, Marishka herself, but either the woman was gone or he didn't know enough in women's fashion to spot whoever the blonde was talking about. He let his vision refocus on the untidy pile of newspapers before him. The "she" who had aroused Marishka's ire had served her purpose, however, for his companion promptly launched into another topic (women's clothing, Bruce supposed, and the pitfalls therein), as she unconsciously twirled her immaculate off-white blonde hair around two long-nailed fingers in a increasingly repetitive gesture.

Together he and Marishka were seated in a wide, circular corner booth of _Archer's_, one of southern Gotham's finest bars. Initially Bruce had thought that slipping out of the manor to "hang" with Marishka (her word, not his) would be relaxing, but so far it had been more boring than restful.

And frustrating as well.

He had started out with an intent to work. Before meeting Marishka, he'd stopped at a discount store--the kind that the blonde wouldn't be caught dead near, let alone purchasing items from--and scooped up one of every different newspaper available. Gordon had advised him to check the papers, so that was what he was doing, for all it was worth. Now he sat in this booth, the used newspapers strewn all over the wide circular table before him. A few passerby, people he knew, had looked extremely puzzled by this sight, for the Bruce Wayne that was exposed to the public was not interested in the news unless it involved a hot girl or a fancy new bar opening. For her part, Marishka had dismissed this as a "phase" that he was going through, and told him sweetly that if he wanted to pretend that anything in the papers mattered to him, she'd play along. Since then she'd acted as if the papers weren't even there--which might also have had something to do with the fact she was slightly buzzed at the moment.

Bruce was attempting to put all the pieces together. There had been four murders. Knifings. This was not at all uncommon in Gotham. But four successive knifings over two nights, all in the same style (vertically down the throat, rather than from ear to ear), and possibly with the same knife? Surely they were connected. One thing that bothered him, however, was the sites of the murders--each in a bad spot of town, of course, but each also in a different neighborhood. They were seemingly random and scattered city-wide. No sense in any of it...

His stubbornness was going to give him a headache. If he had been anyone else, he would have given up thinking about this puzzle hours ago and just started enjoying himself. He'd been pondering the same repetitive questions for five hours straight.

"Brucie," Marishka said tauntingly, cutting through his thoughts, "Do you want to _dance?_"

Vaguely Bruce turned his attention to the music playing, and found it to be one of those rappers with the exceptionally NC-17 lyrics. He guessed that by "dancing" Marishka probably meant something else entirely, and grimaced. Yes, she was most indeed buzzed at the moment: normally she knew that he did not play around with women in any adult sense of the word. Such things had always made his conscience rankle. Bruce Wayne may uphold his reputation as a playboy, but he did not use women, even when they wanted to be used.

"Not now, Marzy," he responded. '_Not ever_.' She pouted for a second, but after taking a large gulp from her pina colada she dissolved back into rambling.

"I thought I might want to get a dog, you know? A little pooch. I could call him 'Poochie'...or maybe 'Cupcake'...No, _Puddin'_. That's the best name for a dog. No, no, no! I'd call him 'Brucie.' After you, of course! He'd have dark hair like yours and the same gorgeous blue eyes, the kind that'd match my dress, my favorite dress--hey, did you see that girl's shoes? I have a pair like that..."

Bruce groaned. Perhaps Marishka was more than simply buzzed. By now he was probably beginning to feel some slight effects of his own drinks. He'd started out tame, of course, with a bloody mary or two, but experiencing increasing frustration over the past hours had caused him to venture into knocking back a couple (he didn't remember how many) glasses of brandy, a rarity for a man usually so self-controlled. Strumming his fingers absentmindedly on the table, he tuned out his companion's verbal meanderings and focused once more on the papers. He would solve this. Eventually... right now he was just too frustrated and tired. Perhaps he should take a break. With a disgruntled sigh, he pushed the closest paper away and turned his gaze on the rest of the room, distractedly playing with his glass. He had barely let his sight wander over the door before a familiar face passed through it.

The billionaire blinked in confusion. No, it couldn't be. What could Ambassador Giedre be doing at _Archer's_? He scanned the crowd, hoping he would not pick up on her again, but she stuck out like a sore thumb. It was actually hard to miss her: few Americans had such lushly dark skin. She really was indeed present. Certainly he wasn't _that_ drunk... but if she was not a hallucination, why would she be here, of all places? Surely European Ambassadors didn't travel all the way to America to get drinks.

"Brucie," Marishka pouted again, "aren't you paying attention? You said you were..."

"Sorry, Marzy," he said. "I've got...business, stocks, board meetings...you know, to handle. I'll see you. Don't go anywhere without your escort, okay?"

The pina colada almost slipped from Marishka's hand. Bruce? _Her_ Bruce? Actually caring for business? What was the world coming to? She started open-mouthed at him as he left the table and newspapers behind, before dissolving into disbelieving giggles and calling for another drink, despite not having finished her current one.

"Bruce Wayne," said Giedre graciously as he met her halfway across the room, away from Marishka's shock-blue eyes.

"At your service," he told her, without slurring his words in the slightest. Perhaps he wasn't as far gone as he thought.

"I was hoping to have a look around town, so I asked that charming butler of yours who would be the best guide. He told me my host knew every nook and cranny of this city. For some reason he winked when he said it, too, which I don't quite understand. But no matter. Would your lovely companion mind if I borrowed you for a while?"

Bruce only smiled, to cover up the fact that his face felt slightly hot at her question about Marishka. It probably wasn't conductive to "diplomatic relations" for the ambassador's host to spend half the day semi-buzzed in a ritzy bar. Nevertheless, Giedre appeared to be pointedly ignoring that fact, so Bruce decided to play along.

As for Alfred's supposed "wink," Bruce had a sneaking suspicion that this was due to an inner acknowledgement that Batman went everywhere in Gotham. This meant that either Alfred was getting sloppy or he had some form of external motive. He'd ask his old friend about it later, if he deemed it wise to do so. At the moment he had nothing else to do but what Giedre asked of him.

"I'm sure Toby would be glad to take us on the tour," he responded.

They exited the bar quickly, but as they stepped outside the flash from a professional camera nearly blinded Bruce. Fortunately he'd been sneak-attacked by photographers enough to know how to walk with spots in his vision. The minute his sight cleared he recognized the really bad toupee on the short and squat cameraman. He frowned. Paparazzi tended to hunt in packs, sometimes with journalists in tow. The particular journalist who could often be spotted around this fellow was never welcome, but could be particularly disastrous at this point in time.

"Eddie," he called to the scurrying squat man, "Where's Montana?"

As if realizing his subject was not about to irately demand his immediate removal from the scene, the squat man stopped in the process of shuffling away, to draw closer to Bruce than ever. It seemed as if acknowledging his presence made him ten times braver.

"Ah," he huffed, "She's not 'ere. Gone all serious on us'ns. She's alway' been serious, o' course, but lately it's been e'en worse. Can' stop talkin' 'bout Arkham."

From what Bruce was able to gather (and from Giedre's creased brow, he saw that the foreigner had even worse trouble deciphering the little man's speech), Montana Payton was still hard at work on the Arkham debacle, rather than planning some new way to ambush him. It seemed rather out of character for her... ah, well, everyone had been acting out of character recently. Alfred was speaking to him before he apologized, Temperance was refusing to look him (of all people) in the eye, Marishka was asking to do naughty things, the Joker was probably hiding instead of engaging in his typical theatrics, and not to mention the woman beside him--Giedre, the foreign dignitary who somehow possessed almost exactly the same mannerisms as his murdered best friend. Why shouldn't Montana find some other hobby to take up her time? The world was going crazy anyway.

'_Perhaps it is the endtimes,_' Bruce jokingly thought to himself, but although he was not at all a superstitious man he couldn't help an inner shudder. He shouldn't be thinking like that. Not with the Joker possibly on the loose.

Suddenly the squat man made a quick movement, and Bruce was enveloped by another blinding camera flash. He'd been waiting for this, of course, for this particular photographer would never have turned around to face him if he had not been planning a similar maneuver. Bruce supposed another picture was a good enough payment for the information Eddie had provided. As the squat man scurried off he shouted back, "Sorry, just had to catch a photo of you and the future Mrs. Wayne!"

"What was that?" Giedre murmured, along with some definitely foreign-sounding words. She was obviously seeing spots as well.

"A... well, I don't know the singular of the word, but the plural is 'Paparazzi.' They take pictures of famous people and sell them."

Though he couldn't see her very well yet, he supposed that Giedre was frowning. "In my country the subjects of a photo have to sign a release form before it is published."

'_Hmmm. Now there's an idea,_' thought Bruce, but he dismissed it. He couldn't imagine what plans Montana would entertain to harass him into signing any forms, and he never wanted her to possess his signature on anything anyway. "Well, here it's part of freedom of expression, so he can do what he wants with the pictures."

Bruce started in the general direction of Toby's limousine, Giedre following uncertainly behind him, but had to stop because he didn't want to walk into the middle of the street. Once Bruce's vision cleared again, he was startled to find himself facing the tall, reed-like man who had stepped outside the ambassador's plane to announce her arrival. The reedy man had to bend slightly to reach Bruce's eye-level; his face was so close that Bruce could see stubble on his chin and count nose-hairs. On his suit the frills were slightly dusty.

"Where do you think you are taking the ambassador?" The man said, scowling. "She must stay within defined parameters, and your vehicle has not been examined for possible dangers."

Dangers? Not knowing what to say, Bruce only shrugged. This flippant move seemed to anger the man immensely.

"Americans!" he practically snarled, "Not concerned for anyone but their own! I'll have you know that..."

"Oh, goodness Jurgis, calm down," Giedre interrupted her bodyguard (which was a good a term for the fellow's role as any, Bruce supposed). "I hardly think Bruce will rig his own vehicle to explode."

_Explode?_ Bruce's mind seized on that word, but instead of showing surprise, he merely commented, his face deadpan, "Yeah. Good limousine drivers are hard to find these days."

Jurgis sputtered. He had several crooked teeth. The sounds coming from his mouth were high with tension, making him seem somewhat like a living musical instrument. Bruce tried to think what particular instrument he sounded most like, and settled for the piccolo.

Now that her bodyguard was rendered speechless, Giedre took the opportunity to step past him, giving Bruce an appreciative look. She seized the limousine's door and opened it, motioning for Bruce to walk on through. Raising an eyebrow, the billionaire did as he was bidden, surprised at the idea of a woman holding a door open for a man. As they settled into their seats, Bruce saw another man dressed in a similarly frilly suit (and who was as short as Jurgis was tall, although just as thin), who squeaked out, "But Miss Giedre..."

"Quiet, Linas!" Giedre bellowed through the window. "And don't you go following us all around town!"

The short man squeaked again, and seizing Jurgis's thin hand roughly pulled the other foreigner away. Bruce caught sight of Toby's amused expression in the driver's mirror.

"You'll have to forgive Jurgis," Giedre told Bruce as they fastened their seat-belts. "Our country has been having...internal trouble, recently. He is only being protective. He's my uncle, you see, and he helped raise me. Sometimes I think he forgets that I'm an adult now, even if I am an ambassador."

Bruce had a sudden vision of Jurgis melding with Alfred in his mind, but the image of Alfred being tall and lanky, wearing frills and sputtering piccolo-toned noises, only made him shake his head.

"I understand completely," he told her. She brightened at that.

**000 d da dar dark dark k dark kn dark kni dark knig dark knigh dark knight 000 **

"So, what did _he_ mean?" Giedre asked, while the limousine waited at a red light. Bruce was confused.

"What did who mean?"

"That 'pa-par-az-si.' He said he took that photo of '_you and the future Mrs. Wayne_'--I'm afraid that doesn't make any sense to me. I'm usually well-versed in English customs, but I don't know that phrase."

This time Bruce had to struggle to keep his face from reddening and his voice level. "Oh, it's nothing. Just an obsession that the papers have. I'm the richest person in Gotham, see, and I'm a bachelor...that means _'unmarried'_," he added quickly, when Giedre's face suddenly became confused. "So anytime I'm in public, alone with a single woman, everyone has to wonder if I'm dating. And if--you know--I'll ever propose or anything like that. If I ever do get married, my wife will be _'Mrs. Wayne_,' and before I get married the woman I'm engaged to is the '_future Mrs. Wayne._' Do you see now?"

Giedre suddenly seemed flustered, but she was too elegant to allow herself to show it. That was actually rather unlike Rachel, Bruce realized, but then she waved her hand in a dismissive and extremely Rachel-like gesture. "A foolish pastime for your media indeed."

Bruce could only smile.

That was the beginning of a long evening, as Toby drove from site to site, Bruce explaining the history behind the buildings and landmarks. He had grown up in Gotham and been somewhat of a local history aficionado, but it still surprised him how much he remembered. Some of the places he had not seen since childhood: the zoo, for instance, nestled among skyscrapers in the north quarter, and the natural history museum, of which he had vivid memories of seeing a tyrannosaur skull looming over him as a little boy. He and Rachel used to make a game out of counting all the bones in the skeletons. Now, with Rachel's double sitting beside him, listening avidly to his descriptions, Bruce felt the return of the ache in his heart--the same feeling he had experienced at the airport. Never again could he share such simple joys with someone, for he was an adult and adults did not engage in such foolish things. The person whom he had shared his childhood joys was dead--and all he had left were memories he almost wished he could forget. Of course, he tried to keep the hints of sadness from his voice and his features, but somehow he believed they must have shown through. Giedre kept delivering him knowing, contemplative looks. Mercifully she kept silent about whatever was causing them, however, and instead focused her questions on Gotham's landscape.

Bruce also found he was unconsciously measuring how fast the sun was setting. He silently told himself to stop this, for he had no intention of donning his suit and prowling the streets this night. No, if he didn't sleep, it would be because he was too busy showing the ambassador around, just like the proper host. Besides, Bruce slowly realized, once he began to work himself out of his quiet sadness, in a way he was actually enjoying himself. Giedre seemed genuinely interested in the city and what he had to say. As time wore on he discovered that the reverse was also true. He was truly eager to hear whatever Giedre had to tell him. Her company was pleasant and her chat was not too light-hearted nor too serious. A definite improvement over Marishka, in any case.

"And what is that?" Giedre asked, pointing at a large concrete block as they took the driver's path through one of Gotham's many public parks. The large, imposing hunk of concrete rose up from the ground into an elegant pyramid shape--or, at least, it would have looked elegant if not for being covered by graffiti and the odd heart design declaring, _"Jane loves Bill."_ Bruce shrugged.

"Ah, that. That's just one of the seals that the city set up against the tunnels," he explained. "They're all over the place. Prehistoric Gotham used to have a lot of rivers, see, but a series of floods covered them up. Some of the riverbeds weren't filled in; they just ended up being long underground tunnels, and every so often they'll flood or something. Fortunately most of them lead to the sea. The city set up these big concrete seals over all the open entrances, however, just to keep kids and bums from getting lost or drowned down there. I think of it like a prehistoric sewer system." What he didn't add was that the bat-cave was probably one of these same tunnels.

"So, then, this city has a lot of history," said Giedre, and Bruce nodded. That was one of the things he'd liked about Gotham; there was just so much in it. So much to see, to do, to experience. So much to lose, if the city were ever handed over to the criminals. And ever so much to gain, if only Batman could hold on long enough to rescue the city. Remembering Gotham's history always seemed to give him a sense of purpose.

Around 11 o'clock, they passed a particular street for the second time, and Giedre asked, "Why do we never turn down there?"

"We never want to go down _there_," Bruce told her. "That's a bad neighborhood. You don't go there unless you don't want to come back out. In one piece, I mean."

Giedre made a face. "We have something like that where I live," she said.

Bruce's interest was piqued. Call it a consequence of being a crime-fighting vigilante for several years, but now he was interested in anything to do with felonious behavior. "Really?"

"Oh, in the capital city there are all sorts of neighborhoods," she told him. "And it's in one of the nastier ones that...well, nevermind."

"What?" Bruce asked. "Never mind what?"

"It's just that..." she hesitated, seeming to debate whether she should tell him whatever she was about to say. He waited patiently for her to make up her mind.

"My father," Giedre said eventually, "was killed in one of those places. I wasn't there to see it, of course, but it still affects me. I was only a little girl at the time."

Bruce shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Despite some differences, her story seemed eerily similar to his. Still, she was telling him something very important to her, and he supposed that the best he could do was listen. When she looked up cautiously, trying to gage his reaction, he inclined his head. At his acknowledgement she seemed to blush, though it was hard to tell with her bronze features, and looked down almost shyly. She suddenly seemed taken over by memories.

"I saw him, you know?" She said. "The fellow who killed my father. They caught him. I saw him in the courtroom, and he turned to glare at me--it was a political assassination, you see, he hated everything to do with my father--and sometimes, when I'm alone or very scared, I'll see his face in the corner of my eye."

'_Funny how that sounds,_' Bruce said mentally, '_or perhaps not so funny..._' He'd experienced something similar to that for the first few months after Joe Chill had killed his parents, but it hadn't been Chill's face. It had been his father's, smeared with blood, and always late at night. When Alfred was asleep in his own room and not present to keep Bruce's demons away.

"He's dead now," Giedre said suddenly, interrupting Bruce's thoughts. "Our country abolished the death penalty only after my father's murderer was executed. Some say the bill was purposefully stalled by our parliament, all so he could die. The people loved my father. They would not have endured his killer spending a comfortable life in jail. But... even though most people have forgotten about... _him_ now, except for in history books, I haven't. He still haunts me. I call him my nightmare."

Bruce nodded. He'd forgotten a great deal about Joe Chill, being so busy with his double life of Bruce and Batman, so consumed with making sure nobody ever felt how he'd felt when his parents died. But if he hadn't had Batman to fall back on, what would he now be like? He could understand how someone without a channel like his could dwell on bad memories.

"Did...did you ever meet someone who you could call your nightmare?" Giedre asked, hesitantly. Bruce was startled. A look into her eyes told him that she already knew his answer to her question, but she'd chosen to be polite and ask it anyway, instead of simply assuming. She obviously was better at reading people than he thought, also rather like Rachel. He grimaced. Suddenly a red-rimmed mouth was leering above him, the twisted lips saying in a sing-song voice, _"Do you know how I got these scars?"_

"Yes," he said. "Yes, I have."

**000 Author's Notes 000 **

For anyone wondering what the piccolo sounds like, you tube has some videos that will show you. ;)

**PLEASE NOTE: MY FAMILY IS GOING ON VACATION FOR THE NEXT WEEK**. Therefore updates will depend upon the circumstances. I have a few chapters already written up, so they might be posted, depending on my access to the internet. However I will not have time to write during this time, so once they're gone updates will be even longer. Expect one every 2 to 3 days after I return home... and there might be a week ahead where I'll have no time to write period. So be patient and I'll let you all know. (And yes, we will get to the Joker before my real life gets too hectic...)

Kisses to all reviewers at this time: Mickerayla, Dark.Morning (glad you like Gordon, just don't get too comfy now dark chuckle :O), Heir to the World, dead2self, Vanafindiel (hugs Alfred. you have a fan!), CountryPixie, Csillan.Rose, Almost Funny (three times 0o0), & Rosealinde.

Kudos to all repeat reviewers: Mickerayla, Dark.Morning, Heir to the World, dead2self, CountryPixie, Csillan.Rose, & Almost Funny. :D

Thanks also to the person who put this story on alert, the one who added it to their favorites, and the other who put me on their "favorite authors" list.

Hugs all around!!


	12. Greetings

**IF THE FOUNDATIONS BE DESTROYED, WHAT CAN THE RIGHTEOUS DO?**

I don't own Batman. DC Comics does.

Please note that violence will occur in this story, and that less offensive words like "damn" will be used, but more offensive words will be "asterisked" out. Some sexuality will occur but never anything explicit. As of now this story is rated "T"--if any readers feel the rating needs to be raised, please contact me accordingly and it will be.

I'd just like to say that people should keep an eye on Temperance. And that while Bruce's opinion of Giedre is currently distorted because of her resemblance to Rachel, he's going to get an awakening about her true inner nature fairly soon... I'm shutting up about that, now. ;)

For those of you worried I'm going to kill Alfred off (at least anytime soon--no promises on who dies or not :O), I would like to assure you that he does indeed have a part in this story.

This is a really long one, I know. There's several reasons...mostly that my access to the internet was limited on vacation, so this is the first upload in a while. Also, I just didn't want to divide it into two, because I wanted to get it all over with. So I hope this doesn't go too fast. I try to keep this story's pace fairly slow so I can fit everything I want in each installment.

_I also guarantee you will all hate me at the end of this chapter._ But don't peek! Read it before you spoil the ending!

**Chapter Twelve: Greetings**

Councilman Barnes was never one to let a good political opportunity go by. Bruce had learned this early on, watching the politician's career, and the billionaire had the uncomfortable notion that Barnes was looking to "earn" himself the position of Mayor. If that was the case Bruce would have infinitely preferred Garcia retain the title (as he now already preferred Garcia over the current Mayor's predecessors), but with the strict role of careless playboy to publicly maintain Bruce's hands were somewhat tied in the matter. He could throw a certain amount of fundraisers, of course, as he had done for Dent, but when it came to true politics he had to do his best to look ignorant or uncaring. Harvey Dent had never encountered any serious opposition to his position of Gotham's D.A., so technically one could say that nearly everybody had loved him, and if Bruce wanted to support him that was no skin off his nose. But actual races? Political races where there were two equivalent candidates, two conflicting platforms, and two sets of ideals up for debate? No true immature man-about-town would take sides in such an argument, no matter how much each side should so desperately desire his support. Bruce had enough money, enough publicity by simply walking down the street, and enough talent as a public speaker to potentially swing the city's politics any way he chose. If he were in one camp, he could almost certainly crush the other into near oblivion. This made him the single largest prize in the game of Gotham politics.

Yet instead of reveling in this potential, or even deigning to use it, Bruce found that he was only made further cautious by the power he had in his hands. His father had used that power for good, but Bruce knew it just as easily could have been used for bad. The road to Hell is paved with good intentions, the billionaire understood all too well for his age. Mobsters had large amounts of cash--illegal, yes, but there were ways of making it seem legitimate. With their money they had ruled the city--they still ruled some parts of it--and Bruce knew that his own money could be used in a similar fashion if he so desired. The possibility of misusing such large sums daunted him and served as a cautionary element to any of Bruce's plans. If absolute power corrupts, so goes the adage, then the potential for absolute power had that same morally corrosive quality, and he was loath to fall under its influence.

At the same time, at least Garcia was somewhat concerned over the fate of Gotham beyond his years in office. And although he gave lip service to his commitment against Batman, in reality the current Mayor was either too indifferent or too incompetent to truly pursue and fund the hunt for the caped crusader, a providence that made Bruce eternally grateful to God. This was one of the reasons he did not overly protest his involvement in Garcia's camp, painful though it sometimes was to be at the Mayor's beck and call. If things came to their worst he would still be able to pull out, for he was not far enough rooted among Garcia's supporters to be truly counted as one of them--yet he was also far enough within Garcia's camp that the current Mayor did benefit from his publicity. This was a precarious position, one that he knew he could not hold forever. Eventually something or someone would rise to challenge Garcia, and then the Mayor would want to know Bruce's positions on everything: the minute that happened, Bruce's careful position would collapse into chaos. He shuddered just to think of how contorted his options would be.

Should this ever occur, if he remained within the Mayor's camp he would forever shackle himself to Garcia, no matter what failed policy the Mayor decided on in the future, and no matter that Bruce did not agree with all of the man's positions. However, who knew what would happen if he withdrew? Was the enemy you know always better than the one you don't? If it was Councilman Barnes who was the challenger, Bruce knew that he would have no choice than to support Garcia, heart and soul. Barnes would be a complete and utter disaster, not just for Batman personally, but for the entire city: he had no position on anything whatsoever, no conviction in anything but himself and his own greatness, and no qualms about changing his mind at the mere rise and dip of a fickle public poll. A politician he was--a statesman he was not. Gotham needed stability--Gotham needed a firm hand with its mob--Gotham needed a reassuring face to tell its citizens everything would be all right. Dent could have provided that; Garcia upon occasion provided it; Barnes did not even comprehend any of it. Of those three, only the two worse ones were left, and the worst of all had his eye on being the top dog--and potentially the only man who could stop him had to remain on the sidelines to protect his "secret identity."

Oh, how Bruce hated politics.

No matter how much he hated it, however, he could not always hide from it. Councilman Barnes had seen an opportunity to increase publicity, and he'd taken it. He was therefore throwing a big "social gathering"--Bruce despised that term, simply because it sounded so much more pretentious than need be. One should call it what it was: a _party_. And it was most certainly a party thrown with the most obvious of plans in mind. Bruce had only to look at his hand-written, hand-delivered invitation to the event, to know that he'd been targeted by Barnes' political machine. Although many of his public friends had also been invited, they were likely just to fill up space, for their invitations were typed and mailed. Only Ambassador Giedre had received a similarly personalized invite. Bruce knew he would have to attend, because the Ambassador could not refuse such a generous offer, and her host was therefore practically required to escort her.

The event was for Wednesday, so after a Monday spent with Marishka and showing Giedre around town, Bruce had an entirely free Tuesday to himself. He considered briefly running off to meet Marishka again, but when the ambassador appeared in the kitchen that morning and happily accepted the bacon and eggs that Cook Kwan pushed toward her, suddenly Bruce found his plans changing. Having already given Giedre a quick tour of Wayne Manor, this day he chose to show her the grounds. Before the fire set by Ra's al Ghul, the Manor had possessed three separate gardens, each surrounded by thick walls--which, by the virtue of being brick, had mostly survived the flames. While re-building the Manor, however, Bruce had chosen to divide the southernmost garden into two. His purpose in this was quite simple: the old dry well in the southeast corner led directly to the bat-cave. After falling into the well as a child he knew how easy it was to end up there. As he showed the ambassador the remaining three "safe" gardens, he therefore made sure to keep her in the westernmost half of the southern garden, in an effort to avoid questions about why it was divided. Giedre was either fooled or else too polite to ask.

Bruce was showing her the new Japanese cherry trees--which she seemed to greatly admire--when his gaze happened to chance upon the restored door of the southwestern corner. The moment he saw it, he seemed to be returned to his dream, the dream he'd had when in the grips of fever, where Rachel was running up the hill with him to discover that open door. Now Rachel's double stood beside him, though she did not know enough to be wary of the entrance--he had to remind himself over and over, despite her completely different looks, that she was not his childhood friend.

That dream, though... it had been so _real_, he had almost been living it. Alfred had mentioned that he and Rachel had indeed once ended up in the southwestern corner while the door was open. Perhaps it hadn't been a dream, then, but a memory? A memory he'd almost forgotten, it was so long ago. He wondered how much of his dream had been falsified. Who knew what the mind could make up during fevered sleep? Let alone why it would pick that particular memory to play with.

Bruce did not believe in fate: like most Americans, he had some acknowledgement of the supernatural--God, angels, and so forth (he believed in the devil with exceptional certainty, having experienced too much evil in his lifetime to accept anything different)--but the concept of destiny was a step too far for his taste. It was infinitely preferable to make one's own fate, he firmly thought, for he wanted to screw up his life by his own choices and not by the dictates of an all-encompassing "master plan." But now, as he stood in front of that door, this time in the flesh instead of in a dream, he found himself considering how much of a coincidence it was. What were the chances that he should find himself here, at the same door, with Rachel's unrelated twin, right after having experienced that forgotten dream/memory? His belief in the absoluteness of his free will was shaken, if only for a moment.

Besides, he wondered, what had happened here? Alfred had woken him before his mind could go very far into the "memory," and the butler had mentioned something about his father being "damned angry." From what he remembered Bruce could only recall his father being wrathful once or twice, so whatever had occurred here must have been something earth-shattering. Probably something dangerous. Had it involved that teenager at the bus stop? Bruce tried but failed to remember the teen's face, and the rest of his memory was obviously gone too. Ah, well. It truly wasn't that important, he supposed, and in any case he could just ask Alfred what had occurred.

Having finished the garden tour, Bruce and Giedre stopped by the kitchen for lunch. Cook Kwan was bustling about, and her sons Shun & Huan each handed them a plate. Then the twins sat down across from them, giggling, pointing, and making kissy faces when they believed the two adults weren't looking. From the corner of his eye Bruce saw their actions easily, having prepared his senses to the point where he could almost see blindfolded, and he thought he saw Giedre had a small, quirky hint of a smile in the left corner of her mouth. Perhaps she had seen them too.

Things were pleasant enough, but then Temperance entered the room. Bruce tried not to glare at her. The ambassador sitting beside him wouldn't understand, he supposed, and he didn't plan on explaining about Silhouette to her. Of course, he'd despised Temperance even before figuring out her "secret identity," but in his mind the fact that she was Silhouette only justified his previous dislike of her. He hadn't liked the idea of Alfred getting an assistant in the first place, and had been determined to despise whoever the butler found. When Temperance arrived from England it was easy to detest her: she was quietly intense, gliding from room to room, awkwardly attentive to her surroundings and other people (hence her desire to always stare one in the eye), and overly solemn and strict. She was also cold, Bruce had discovered quickly. Her green eyes had the ability to become so icy-hard that they might as well turn into a frozen blue. At the same time, that red hair of hers only served to make her head seem ready to burst into flame. Secretly Bruce harbored the conviction that she had a temper well beyond anyone he'd ever known. If he could only find proof...

Well, now he wouldn't need to prove she was a hothead to fire her--he'd just need to prove that she was Silhouette. All he had right now was a suspicion and a hunch. And it was a good hunch, all things considered. Once Ambassador Giedre was gone, he _would_ figure out a way to tell Alfred about Silhouette... and then Temperance would be back on a plane to England in no time. He'd have her deported. Giedre was only staying for eight more days, and that would give him plenty of time to plan how to tell Alfred. Just to think of it made Bruce happy--sometime next week he could finally fire Temperance. Maybe then things would get back to normal. If only.

Bruce shook himself from these musings, and watched Temperance cautiously. She paid him no attention, only bending to retrieve some sandwiches from the refrigerator, a kettle from the stove-top, and a set of cups from the cupboard. When she loaded all this on a tray, Bruce raised an eyebrow, for it made a little mountain-sized heap. Far too much for one petite woman to eat. It seemed Temperance had a problem with judging her stomach size as well... but even he didn't think she was a devotee of the sin of gluttony. When she turned to leave, her eyes locked on his and she made a quick shake of the head, as if trying to say that _no_, this wasn't all for her.

'_How odd,_' he thought, before it occurred to him that he hadn't seen hide nor hair of Alfred today, and that Temperance had specifically chosen to take turkey-and-tomato sandwiches, Alfred's favorite lunch, along with a jar of spicy mustard that only Alfred could stand. Where was his old friend? He couldn't still be in his rooms, could he? Usually Alfred woke far earlier than his master...

After finishing his lunch Bruce excused himself, wincing that he had to leave Giedre in the company of Shun and Huan, but figuring that she seemed quite taken with them so perhaps this wouldn't be a problem. He headed toward the eastern wing, where Alfred's rooms were located. The older man liked to have his bedroom facing East, with the curtains open, so the sun could function as his alarm clock--this habit of rising early could only make Bruce shudder. A quick rap of knuckles on the outer door, and he was immediately answered by Alfred's permission to enter.

"Master Wayne," his older friend greeted, as Bruce entered the room. Bruce frowned. It was a nice day, relatively warm for early autumn, but he found that Alfred had curled himself up into a chair, with a thick blanket coiled over him. His voice had sounded somewhat off--perhaps just a bit scratchy. A book was in one hand and a steaming mug full of tea in the other.

"How are you today, Alfred?" the younger man asked, sinking into an opposite chair that Alfred indicated to him. The older man smiled and shrugged offhandedly.

"Getting along, Master Wayne, getting along. Feeling just the slightest bit under the weather."

"I..." Bruce tried to think of what to say, and came up blank, so he said, "I hope I didn't give you my fever."

Seeing as his fever had been caused by Crane's cocktail, and had therefore been noncontagious, this was a remarkably foolish thing to say. Alfred didn't seem to mind, though. If anything his smile widened, and a slight twinkle seemed restored to his eyes. He seemed to appreciate the statement as Bruce's attempt to cheer him.

"I don't think so, Master Wayne," he told the younger man, almost sympathetically, and Bruce shifted in his seat. He should say something more now, he knew. What else could he say? What else should he say? He should say _something..._

"Uh... Nice weather," he blurted out. Damn it. How could he be such a good speaker in public, yet fall to pieces in front of his butler? What was it about Alfred that made him turn into such a moronic child?

"I'm quite certain," said Alfred, "but I've decided to spend the afternoon reading. Good book. A real page-turner, and all that."

Bruce let his gaze wander over to Alfred's sitting-room bookshelf, which was loaded with volumes of history and philosophy, theology and ethics, poetry and classics. Alfred was never a light reader, he knew, and it was perfectly normal for the butler to spend his off-days with his nose in a book. And although he had permission to take a vacation any time he pleased, Bruce's household being able to run almost autonomously, it was actually a rarity when he took some time to himself. He seemed to enjoy work more than reading. This, more than anything, caused Bruce to begin to worry.

Just then Temperance entered the room from the little kitchen to the left. Alfred never kept that room stocked, for he liked to eat his meals with the staff in public, but it still had all the amenities and some tea bags which Temperance had obviously made use of. She set a platter of sandwiches down, pouring some more tea into Alfred's mug, and then sat down in the third chair, stonefaced and silent as always.

"Thank you, Temperance," Alfred told her politely, before explaining to Bruce, "She was kind enough to fetch me lunch, seeing as I was too comfortable in this chair to get up."

'_That's one thing I hope you know even I would never believe,_' thought Bruce. That statement had been a complete and utter lie, and everyone in the room knew it. The Alfred Bruce knew cared more about others' convenience than his own comfort.

But the younger man couldn't say anything. Alfred would just deflate, he knew, and he did not dare cause his older friend any pain--even though it caused him a great amount of pain to hold back his questions.

"And one more thing, Master Wayne, before you run along and see how the ambassador is doing," Alfred told him, smiling, although Bruce could tell that the gesture was forced and cautious. "I was hoping that Temperance could serve as your escort for Councilman Barnes' little social gathering tomorrow. I think I shall want to finish this book."

What was he being so cautious about? '_Does he think I'll blow up at him?_' Bruce wondered, before nodding obediently; he didn't even glare at Temperance when Alfred looked away. At the moment he felt too empty to be angry at her, whether she was Silhouette or not. As he left the room, Temperance followed him out the door and gave him a worried look, almost if seeking to communicate her concern without words, before returning into the room. Such was Alfred's hold over the both of them: even while he was not present, he commanded silence about his illness.

Suddenly telling Alfred about Silhouette didn't seem all that important any more.

**000 d da dar dark dark k dark kn dark kni dark knig dark knigh dark knight 000**

_Wednesday, 8:43 P.M._

Councilman Barnes had spared no expense, Bruce thought idly, as he observed the giant hall where the politician was hosting his "social gathering." He wondered if mob money was in any way connected to some of the extravagance. Barnes was only lower upper class, and he either was receiving help with his decor or else would be in debt after this event was over.

As Bruce and Giedre had set out for Barnes' home, Jurgis had managed to convince Giedre to come in her own vehicle (although the reedy man had needed quite a bit of help from wheedling Linas to do so). In the traffic the two limousines had become separated, and since Toby knew the streets better than Giedre's driver, Bruce had supposed that he would arrive earlier than the ambassador. Until, that is, Toby had pulled into a street that was blockaded, someone having gotten into an accident. Bruce saw paramedics, felt worry for the drivers involved, and then realized that the detour would serve to make him fashionably late. Well, as fashionable as lateness could be, anyway.

To top all this off, the moment Bruce had entered Barnes' home, an anxious Huerta had been there to seek him out. She tailed him for a good twenty minutes, blathering on about the difficulties her job involved, especially those inquests into the criminals caught by "the Bat Man," and all in a whining way that reminded him of Marishka talking about clothes. Marishka wasn't there today, having been inhibited by an "illness"--which Bruce suspected was only a truly nasty hangover--but he thought she would have been infinitely preferable company compared to the D.A. At last Huerta, not looking where she was headed, had the clumsiness to collide with a couple of servers carrying drinks. Bruce managed to escape while all the chaos was being sorted out, and for all he knew Huerta was currently either in the bathroom trying to salvage her fancy dress or heading home in utter humiliation.

Now, finally left at peace, he was combing the crowd for Giedre. He figured that it wasn't polite to leave one's foreign guest swimming alone through a sea of complete strangers. At least with him present Giedre would have a companion to help deflect questions.

Temperance stood beside him, looking warily out at the surrounding cloud of people. She wore a deep emerald dress that matched her eyes. It was actually quite fetching on her--or it would have been, if she would only _smile..._

'_Fat chance of that, though,_' Bruce snorted.

He was about to go stand near the buffet table when he heard a word that his ears were always trained for: "Batman."

Ah! There was Ambassador Giedre, nodding her head with a slightly baffled look on her face--so very reminiscent of Rachel's same look--and she was standing by... Barnes. Bruce could only groan.

"So," Barnes was saying, "this Batman has been plaguing our city for some time now. I've been rather influential in getting the public and papers to see just how dangerous this vigilante is, and only now are people realizing the absolute necessity in securing his capture. It's my hope that even Mayor Garcia will begin to see the light soon."

Giedre held up an elegant hand. "Excuse me, though, I don't understand. Why is this man named after a baseball instrument?"

This confused Barnes. "What?"

"'Bat' Man," Giedre said, making a swinging motion with her hands, as if she was gripping said instrument. Bruce did a double take and attempted not to double over in laughter.

"OH..." Barnes said, understanding dawning on him, "Not 'bat' man--'BAT' man."

Of course, this was not nearly enough explanation for Giedre, and her confused look only returned as Barnes began bragging again.

"I actually knew that the Batman was trouble the moment he appeared. It's obvious that he's connected to organized crime. It's obvious that this was all a ruse thought up to trick the public. I, however, was able to see through it all, fortunately for Gotham and its citizens. Perhaps the damage that the Batman has done can be repaired before it's too late. Did you know that just seven months ago he hired a thug, nicknamed him 'Joker,' and set him loose on the town? Dozen of deaths. Why, the 'Joker' and the 'Batman' might even be the same person..."

'_That's it,_' Bruce thought abruptly, quite offended. '_I'm going to kill him._'

"Temperance, why don't you go fetch a couple drinks?" he said, his desire to have the redhead off his tail suddenly increasing. She turned her green eyes to him, seemed to understand what he really meant, and parted from him without saying a word.

"Excuse me," Bruce calmly interrupted, keeping tension out of his voice, as he stepped into the Councilman and Ambassador's line of vision. Giedre looked relieved to see him, but Barnes immediately became more animated than Bruce had ever seen. The billionaire would not have been surprised to see the councilman start foaming at the mouth.

"Mr. Wayne!" Barnes said enthusiastically, seizing Bruce's hand without it being offered and pumping it almost frantically. Bruce's smile became tight-lipped as his injured elbow throbbed in protest. Gingerly he removed his hand, which wasn't all that hard to do, seeing as Barnes' grip was rather like a limp fish. "How happy I am to finally see you! I must say that I've been looking forward to meeting the son of the famous Thomas Wayne for quite some time! Your family has done so much for Gotham--it's nice to meet a kindred spirit! How are you?"

"Quite fine, thank you," responded Bruce, and he offered his left (and uninjured) elbow to Giedre. "Now, if you could excuse us, I have someone I want the good ambassador to meet."

Barnes' face was priceless as Bruce pulled Giedre away without another word. Although the councilman's look had caused him great mirth inside, Bruce did not dare turn around to view it again. After all, if he looked him in the eye, Barnes might follow them like an abandoned puppy.

"So who is it?" Giedre asked, tugging Bruce's arm in an insistently impatient manner. So much like Rachel, it was uncanny...

"Oh? Nobody," Bruce told her, "I just wanted to get you away from him. He's a pain, isn't he?"

"Certainly," the ambassador responded lightly, sounding relieved. She tossed her head, seemingly to get her dark black hair out of her eyes, but it was such a Rachel-like movement that it made Bruce pause. This was perhaps his most unfortunate mistake yet; for at that precise moment he caught sight of someone he wished he'd never met and never wanted to meet again. The same person's eyes found him, and she began plowing through the crowd towards them. Montana Payton.

"Excuse me," Bruce said, tugging Giedre abruptly in another direction, much to her confusion. "Let's go..._this_ way..."

A bit too late. The journalist was upon them.

"Mr. _Wayne,_" Montana's uptight voice sounded, and Bruce imagined that her vocal chords would suddenly cease working if she dared to make his name sound any more vile than she just had. If only...

"Why, hello," said Giedre pleasantly, clearly unaware of who she was speaking to. "I'm Ambassador Giedre of--"

"Of the rotten little country that stops free speech?" Montana cut her off, raising both of her bushy brown eyebrows. Bruce thought they looked rather like fuzzy caterpillars. "As I recall, you don't even let photographers shoot without a license. Now if you'll excuse me, hon, I have to talk to that horrible specimen of humanity who's attached himself to your arm."

Giedre was obviously taken aback. Her mouth dropped open, but Bruce could only give her the briefest of sympathetic looks before Montana monopolized his attention once more.

"Don't think that because you have offered me a story lead that I've stopped watching you, Mr. _Wayne,_" Montana told him. "In the brief time you've escaped critiques in my article--seeing as the Mayor continues to render himself incompetent due to this conspiracy he's intent on holding--I've also been keeping tabs on you. And you've done nothing of importance. You--"

"Your drinks, sir," interrupted Temperance, who had carried a small platter of three champagnes over. She quirked a red eyebrow at Montana. "And one for you, Miss Payton?"

Montana had looked ready to explode at Temperance's disruption of her rant, but Temperance's offer only seemed to make her boil. Her hand shot out, in a jabbing gesture, which Bruce supposed was meant to be accusatory. It only succeeded in knocking the platter from Temperance's hands, and Bruce braced himself for the sound of shattering glass filling the whole hall. At least everyone present would understand what had happened, everyone here having been hounded by Montana at least once during their lives or professional careers.

The shattering sound never came, however. In a movement that was only a blur, Temperance managed to catch all three glasses on the tray, and with only two of them spilling their contents. There was a single second where all three onlookers--Bruce, Giedre, and most of all Montana--were silent in the throes of their surprise. Bruce attempted to blink away the sight, only to find that the image remained. Had he truly just seen that? Granted, it was not altogether an impossible catch, nor even an exceptionally difficult one, but it was not something he recalled ever thinking Alfred's "helper" was capable of doing. Then again, if she was Silhouette, she would have trained her reflexes, right?

For her part, Temperance looked flushed and--perhaps?--a bit embarrassed. People did not often engage in near-acrobatics during social gatherings. She seemed to calm herself in the next few seconds, however, for she icily turned to walk off with the spilt drinks and wet tray. At that point that Montana, herself embarrassed into a short, uncharacteristic moment of speechlessness over what had just occurred, decided to speak up.

"Well, just what were you _doing?_" The journalist said hotly, her voice nearly a screech. "You are a horrible server, you know, if you knock drinks into people all the time!" Several people from the crowd paused in their discussions to watch.

Temperance abruptly whirled around, locking her cold green eyes on Montana's face. She was a good head and a half shorter than the reporter, but nonetheless certainly seemed to be the fiercer of the two.

'_Aha!_' Bruce thought excitedly. There it was! The temper he'd always suspected Temperance of having! Except... unlike all the times he'd imagined seeing it, when he finally saw Temperance's ire it was not directed toward him.

"Miss Payton," the redhead said tersely, "You are nothing but an overconfident and overambitious writer of drivel, who expects everyone to bow to your pathetic concepts of moral brilliance. I'd kindly ask you to cease and desist, yet I know your type a bit too well: you expect to ask everything of everyone else, but will never accept being asked to do something yourself. However, I'm afraid at this time I simply must demand one simple indulgence from you..." Temperance leaned forward, looking quite menacing, and hotly whispered the next two words. "_Shut up._"

Bruce would never admit it later, but at this moment he greatly admired the petite woman. Very few people managed to get a word in edgewise when Montana was after them--even fewer when the journalist was unusually angry. To manage to say anything, let alone a whole paragraph, merited an award in his mind. Montana was able only to stare. At Bruce's side, Giedre shifted, clearly uncomfortable with the hostility in the air.

But Temperance was not finished. She handed the tray to a nearby server, who looked just as flabbergasted as all the other onlookers, and taking a few steps forward seized Montana's wrist. With an abrupt yank she bodily hauled the larger woman from the room, the shocked Montana resisting slightly the whole way. Bruce heard his employee further berating, _"And how dare you harass my employer, Miss Payton, in such a public place? Have you no sense of decency or decorum? Since you have neither, you'll be happy to leave now and think over these things, I'm sure; or else I shall have Mr. Barnes expel you from the premises..."_ and then both women were gone. The onlookers, after initially fixing Bruce and Giedre with a questioning stare, quickly returned to whatever conversations they were formerly engaged in.

Giedre, as if afraid her question would make a scene, leaned into Bruce's ear to whisper. "Wherever did you find that housemaid?"

He smiled. Technically Temperance wasn't a housemaid, but he wasn't about to leave Giedre with the impression that the redhead was even half this useful most of the time. Actually, until this moment, useful _any_ of the time. "She's normally quiet, although she can be intense. I find her annoying."

"Really?" Giedre said, surprised. "I don't know, she seemed okay at your manor. She was actually very kind to me and those little boys... Shun and Huan, I think."

Bruce held back a snort. Temperance? Kind to children? Nah, she'd more likely boil them and eat them for supper. But at Giedre's statement he found himself wondering how and when he had first come to despise the small woman. What had she done that had initially upset him? All he could recall was an intense dislike for her, as he first saw her exiting the plane, fresh from England. Alfred had interviewed her online before to hiring her, but Bruce himself hadn't seen her up until then. Maybe it was her name that had first irked him: what kind of name was "Remember Temperance"? Still, that was a rather pathetic reason to dislike someone. He tried to think harder. There had to be a reason...

"Maybe I don't know her too well," was all he said. Giedre shrugged. She was so much like Rachel...

Before Bruce could think or say anything else, he was interrupted. By an explosion.

At first his mind did not register what the sound was. He'd been living his double life for so long, he was used to certain things belonging to one half or the other. Parties, such as the one he was currently attending, belonged to the side of him that was Bruce Wayne. Explosions, on the other hand, entirely belonged to the half of him that was Batman. Just as Batman did not show up to mingle with Bruce's rich friends, so also did Bruce not hear or witness explosions that Batman dealt with. It was easier for him to keep track of his two sides this way, by partitioning up specific elements, so he would not get his two roles of vigilante and worthless playboy confused at inopportune moments. Therefore he experienced some amount of disbelief that such an explosion had indeed occurred. The sensation of Giedre's grip on his arm tightening brought him back to awareness.

The sound had barely echoed in his ears before Bruce began to hear screaming. Barnes' guests were panicking; they fled in all directions, and Bruce saw the cloud of dust and debris from the blast--it was near the back of the room, opposite the front doors. Gunfire was heard next, and several men wearing dark suits with automatic rifles could be seen upending the tables in the dust's wake. They were wearing clown masks.

'_No,_' thought Bruce immediately, his eyes widening. Why now? And why here, of all places?

At that precise moment, above the sounds of raining dust, gunfire, and the screams of the party-goers, came laughter--jeering laughter, uproarious, obnoxious, and utterly delighted, which swept over the room and brought a chill deeper than ice into Bruce's bones. It was a sound he had heard before.

"Oh, God," Bruce whispered, once again falling back to prayer in the face of his nightmare, "Why would he come out of hiding _now?_"

**000 Author's Notes 000**

Mwahahahahaaa...

Thanks to the patient reviewers: dead2self, CountryPixie, Dark.Morning, Mickerayla, Naga, Almost Funny, Haladflire65, & Heir to the World. Doubly so because you are all repeat reviewers.

Also hugs to all the viewers! It sure makes my day that you're here! :)


	13. Hostage

**IF THE FOUNDATIONS BE DESTROYED, WHAT CAN THE RIGHTEOUS DO?**

I don't own Batman. DC Comics does.

Please note that violence will occur in this story, and that less offensive words like "damn" will be used, but more offensive words will be "asterisked" out. Some sexuality will occur but never anything explicit. As of now this story is rated "T"--if any readers feel the rating needs to be raised, please contact me accordingly and it will be.

Here it is. What you've been waiting for... and if anyone reviews, could you tell me at least _one_ thing you thought I could have done better while writing the Joker? He's difficult to keep in character, and it doesn't help that he's so unfamiliar to me. Hopefully I'll get better at dealing with him.

Poor Bruce. The trouble starts...

**Chapter Thirteen: Hostage**

_Wednesday, 9:12 P.M._

Once before, the Joker had decided to grace upper society with his unique presence. Bruce recalled how quickly he'd ducked out of sight, rushing to one of his many hidden "bat-caves", flinging on his protective suit while filled with worry over what was happening upstairs. Knowing Rachel, she'd do something foolhardy, he was sure of it... and then, rushing back to the dinner hall, he'd seen that monster, circling Rachel, eying his best friend like she was a piece of meat to be cooked and eaten. Or maybe even devoured raw. Whichever metaphor was best, Bruce had not liked the scene at all, and he'd rushed in as quickly as possible to defend his childhood companion.

Now Rachel was dead, despite what he'd done for her that night, but nonetheless by a twist of fate it was her near double standing next to him now, rigid and frozen with fear and shock. Bruce knew that this time there was no bat-cave to duck into, no protective suit to put on. He was in Councilman Barnes' house, wearing his tux, without so much as a housekey to defend himself with. Or to defend the party guests, for that matter.

He hadn't seen the Joker yet, but he certainly heard the psychopath's laughter: it was hard to mistake that sound for anythingelse. For a single moment Bruce recalled Mozart's incredibly grating laugh from that old movie, _Amadeus, _but the comparison hardly seemed to fit. The Joker's laugh was ominous--it filled the room like a flood, drowning all the screams and shrieks of the panicked partygoers. It was pressing up against Bruce himself, squeezing him, throttling him... he couldn't breathe, and not just because Giedre was clutching his arm. He was hesitant to fill his lungs with air, almost as if afraid he would suck up the laughter along with much-needed oxygen. If that happened, he could never be rid of it. It would become a part of him, running through his bloodstream: his heart would beat along with the Joker's unsteady rhythm of cackling. Already he felt contaminated. How could he fight if he was crippled by merely the Joker's amused chortling?

Unconsciously he was gripping his hands tight, into balled fists, his short fingernails cutting into his skin. What _could_ he do? Already Bruce was acting out-of-character for his playboy persona. News had gotten around of how he had high-tailed it seven months ago when the Joker had appeared at his penthouse; how he had run away into what everyone assumed was a "panic room." It actually was one, originally, but he'd converted it into a private, miniature "bat-cave" to store his suit. Luckily the suit had actually been in there at that time. Everyone thus "knew" he was a coward (not that anyone blamed him overmuch)--but here he was, not running. Bruce supposed that it was his Batman side that preferred fight over flight, but somehow he couldn't help but think that perhaps in this instance flight was preferable.

At last the cackling stopped, and more shots rang into the air. The Joker's voice boomed over the renewed screaming.

"Quiet _down_, now! Let's not get _too_ carried away just _yet!_"

Giedre was obviously in shock. With a start, Bruce realized that she had no idea what was going on. She'd been in the city for the past four days, and nobody had told her of the Joker. Why should they? Shouldn't he be locked up? Bruce felt a rush of anger at Garcia, for keeping the Arkham breakout so quiet, and for letting a foreign dignitary arrive at Gotham without the slightest idea of the dangers...

There was a horrendous crash, and Bruce saw that the Joker had leaped up atop one of the buffet tables. For the first time in seven months Bruce found himself viewing the clown in person. The monster's appearance had not changed overmuch, despite that he had obviously lost possession of his purple suit during his time at Arkham. He was a thin man in his mid-thirties, blonde hair tinged a pine-green color, with a whitened face, darkened rings circling his sharp brown eyes, and a red streak encompassing both mouth and cheeks--all of which was frighteningly familiar to Bruce. In addition to the older cuts revolving around his lips, the Joker now also sported a couple extra scars at his hairline, where the prongs on Batman's armor had sliced him during their last encounter, although these were difficult to see while covered in white paint.

Bruce's anger at Garcia suddenly found a new target. _'Shouldn't he be hanging by his ankle?'_ the billionaire thought, hotly, but he didn't dare say anything aloud. He really didn't trust his voice right now, anyway. Everyone had fallen completely silent. His heart was currently hammering so loudly that he was almost certain the monster could hear it.

But the Joker gave no indication that he could hear heartbeats. Instead he was busying himself on the table, prancing up and down its length, kicking off bowls of punch to the floor, trampling through the hors d'oeuvres, making especially sure to break the plates underneath. The noises of cracking porcelain, clattering silverware, and squishing food echoed in the hall, replacing the sounds of the quieted guests' screams. After a few moments the Joker stopped at a particular plate, crouching down out of Bruce's vision, before rising with several ringlets of young shrimp on toothpicks. He handed one to a speechless young brunette standing petrified by the side of the table, winking pronouncedly at her, before stuffing his mouth with another. The remaining two he held aloft in the air.

"As _happy_ as I am to see you all tonight, I'm afraid I simply can't stay long... Busy schedule and all that," he announced, though at first it was difficult to understand him while he chewed. He paused to swallow and smacked his red lips, licking them with a wet tongue. "I'm _sure_ you'll all excuse me, we really must begin... so, _every_body co_oper_ative? Good. I have here two pretty lil' prizes for two _very_ special people..."

He surveyed the assembled crowd, which only stared back quietly. Holding the two shrimp higher, he asked, "Now, who do we _allllll_ think the winners of the jackpot are?"

Nobody said a word. Bruce had a sinking feeling in his hammering heart.

The Joker did not look at all perturbed about the blanket of silence. He turned to the petrified woman at the tableside, who had failed to eat her shrimp. "Would you hazard a guess, _missy?_"

She just stared, before biting her lip and shaking her head slowly, eyes so wide they might pop out. The Joker mimicked her movement, staring into her eyes and mockingly exaggerating it, and then pointed at her shrimp. "You gonna eat that? _No?_ Then I'll take it."

He secured it from her shaking fingers without protest, and stuffed it into his mouth as well. Then he twirled the other two haphazardly in his hands.

"I must say: I _like_ these little treats, and who knows how long these other two will last around me?" He smiled, but it was a grim look, lips pressed tight together. "How 'bout this: if I end up eating one of these beauties, instead of its lucky true owner, then the person it belongs to doesn't make it out... in... _one piece_. Do we all _understand?_"

Underneath his breath, Bruce cursed vehemently. Of course, with the Joker involved, there would be deaths--especially since Batman happened to be away at the moment. But he had no idea what to do. Obviously he refused to give the madman what he wanted--who knew what would happen to the unfortunates the Joker was targeting?--and he couldn't be sure who the Joker had targeted, anyway. Yet, how could he stop the monster from doing as he pleased? Right here he was only Bruce Wayne, a man talented in buying things that weren't for sale. Mopping the floor with the Joker was something out of Bruce Wayne's league. Doing so would shatter Bruce's cover irrevocably. Still, if it meant saving two lives...

The Joker was scanning the crowd, again, his brown eyes traveling over the expanse of frozen partiers. A sneer crossed his face, briefly, as he viewed the blanket of terrified faces, though it quickly faded as he gained a thoughtful look. He pursed his lips, then abruptly snapped his fingers, as if an epiphany had come to him.

"_Oho_, silly me... I've forgotten to tell you who the dynamic duo is, haven't I? Well, no sense in not making it fun... let's make a quick _game_ out of it. And _you_ can start," the Joker told the brunette beside him. She just continued to stare.

"_Two_ questions," he said simply. "First: who here is _not_ from America?"

Beside Bruce, Giedre gave a jerk of surprise. Bruce had been expecting this, however, and he began to furiously debate how he could somehow sneak Giedre from the room. A murdered ambassador would be an international incident, spelling trouble not just for Gotham but the whole country. _How _he was going to get Giedre out was another matter, with the Joker's clowns weaving through the crowd...

The brunette by the table said nothing in response to the Joker's question. Bruce doubted she was capable of speaking. He sympathized with her, being unsure of sounding out words himself. At her continued silence the Joker cocked his head to the side. "Do you want me to _repeat_ myself, beautiful?"

When the monster crouched and reached for her, she abruptly pulled back. Dropping his hands to his knees, the clown sighed dramatically, then waved an open hand in the air. "Anyone want to help her, _hmm?_ She seems a bit... a_hem_, skittish, at the moment."

No volunteers were forthcoming. This was apparently disappointing to the Joker, yet seemingly not unexpected, for he sighed again and stood up once more, rolling his eyes and raising the back of his free hand to his forehead in a "woe is me" gesture.

"Right, _then,_ let's try this," he said quietly, "Since you _all _are party poopers..."

Without warning he lurched forwards, seizing the brunette and dragging her up with him onto the table. She screamed loudly, but he only clamped a hand over her mouth. "Three seconds, good _Ambassador, _before something _bad _happens! Very--ve_ry_--_ve__ry_ bad! I know you're out there _some_where! One...two..."

Before Bruce could silence her, Giedre had already shouted out. "Here!"

She pushed Bruce away, roughly, and stepped forward. The Joker's eyes had found her in the crowd almost immediately after her cry, but not soon enough to notice that she had been standing next to Bruce Wayne. For his part Bruce could tell that although Giedre certainly was attempting to be brave, her trembling hands told another story. To cover up the tremors she crossed her arms in a guarded position. Again, so much like Rachel...

Seeming appreciative of her quick response, the Joker nodded, a genuine smile on his scarred lips this time. "Good girl. So... here's _yours_."

He held out one of the shrimp to her. She was a good twenty paces away, and her frown made it obvious that she had no desire to come closer. However, the Joker was insistent, wiggling the shrimp as if it were a worm on a hook. "Come, come, now--you don't want someone _else_ to have it, _do_ you?"

Head down, Giedre quietly weaved through the onlookers, stopping just out of arm's reach. Eyeing not the entree but the man who carried it, she refused to come closer. As if accommodating her, the Joker stretched his arm out further, though when she reached for the shrimp he pulled it back. He was taunting her, Bruce realized; and although she knew he was dangerous, she obviously didn't know enough to be as wary as she should have been. She took the bait and made one step forward. At this the Joker nodded again, smiling broader, and when she reached for the shrimp once again he seized her wrist. Giedre's face showed shock at this--but the Joker only shook his head in mock disappointment. He released his first hostage, the whimpering brunette, who crawled off the tabletop in near tears.

"Tut, _tut_, too trusting, m'dear... Ah, well, that can be solved la_ter_..."

A motion to a nearby masked goon, and the goon snatched the ambassador's arm. Giedre was either too terrified or had decided it was too useless to struggle. Judging by the look on her face, Bruce decided she was more motivated by terror. His mind worked furiously as the Joker stood once more.

"And the _second_ question: whose house is this? Prize number _two_ goes to our wonderful host this evening! Where might the good Councilman be?"

Barnes! There was never any chance of that politician stepping forward, not for anyone or anything. He cared too much for his own skin. Unfortunately for him, one of the clown-faced goons had spotted him in the crowd, and now herded him toward the monster's table-turned-platform. The councilman was shaking so badly that Bruce was surprised he hadn't wet himself. The Joker appeared entirely unimpressed.

"There, _there_, no reason to be scared of _me_." He held out the shrimp. "I simply want to... _thank_ you... for assembling the get-together this evening."

The kind words did not seem to help. Barnes' bug-eyes continued to stare at the proffered shrimp, but he was trembling too much to take it. When the clown raised an eyebrow at him, the situation seemed to become too much for the councilman. He collapsed in a dead faint.

For a moment the room was silent; then the Joker rocked back on his heels, head thrown back and red-rimmed mouth wide, laughing uproariously. Everyone flinched at the sight of his sickeningly yellow teeth. With the renewed presence of the clown's laughter, however, Bruce once again felt like he was being throttled. His hands shook, for a brief second, then he clenched them once more. Now wasn't the time for this. He couldn't afford to be afraid--not while his manor's guest was targeted by the Joker. Bruce looked wildly around the room for a weapon; a tray, a broken glass, _something..._ but none of the servers were close. Temperance had held a tray, but she had given it up and was probably currently trapped outside with Montana Payton. This was one time where Bruce would have welcomed Silhouette's presence. Annoying though she was, he would have appreciated a little help, even what little a klutz like Silhouette could provide.

Finally finished with his laughter, the Joker stepped off the table and bent down to stuff the shrimp deep into the unconscious councilman's mouth. "Nobody remove that, _okay?_" the monster said, wagging a finger at the crowd. A giggly snort erupted from him. "He'll want it when he wakes up."

With that, the Joker straightened, glanced over to motionless Giedre with a calculating look, and began heading for the front door, completely ignoring the hole that he and his goons had blown through the back of the room. His masked companion pulled the petrified Giedre along behind. "I'm afraid that's all we have to_night_, ladies and gentlemen," he said as he walked, smiling wickedly as the partygoers shrank back before him. "I bid you a fond farewell. Don't have too much fun _without_ me, now..."

It seemed as if Bruce's options had dwindled. It was either he acted now, or he let Giedre be taken who-knew-where. None of his fellow guests were going to intervene. As the Joker moved for the door, nobody said a word. The crowd parted silently to watch him pass.

Except Bruce.

At first he wasn't noticeable, but as the gap between him and the other partygoers widened he stood out like a white dot on black canvass. Two strides away, the Joker stopped, his goon halting behind. Giedre's wide eyes stared at the last remaining member of the Wayne family. But Bruce didn't dare look at her--he didn't dare take his eyes off the psychopath standing before him.

The Joker cocked his head, brown eyes searching Bruce's face. Curiosity was etched on his painted features.

_'Show no fear,'_ Bruce told himself silently. The insane feed off people's fears--he'd heard that somewhere, and he believed it. Besides, when confronting the Joker, showing no fear was a matter of Batman's policy. And while it may only have been Batman's alter ego present at the moment, Bruce still followed Batman's rules.

Nonetheless, when the Joker prodded--"_Well?_"--Bruce couldn't stop a flinch. He almost hadn't heard the word, his heart was beating so loudly in his ears--but while the Joker couldn't hear that, he certainly saw the flinch. His red mouth twisted upward.

"_Bruce Wayne,_" he said, and Bruce couldn't help but realize that this was the first time he'd heard the monster say his name--his true name, anyway. "How could I not know that _pretty_face, m'boy? As I recall, you were kind enough to host a little... _event_... for Harvey a while back... how _nice_ of you to invite the Batman as well."

'_Show confusion!_' Bruce's mind screamed, and he drew his brows together. Bruce Wayne would not have been present at the Batman's arrival, although he had been told of it, and he would not know the Joker well enough to understand when the clown was kidding. Apparently the look on his face was enough to fool the monster, who only smiled wider.

"Shame, though... I didn't get to meet you _in person_--I hear you made a run for your nice and comfy panic room. I must say, I was rather insulted, but we get the chance to meet _now_, don't we?"

A gloved hand was offered. "I'm the Joker, spreader of _mayhem_, undoer of the best-laid _plans_, and all-around causer of _con_niptions... so pleased to meet you, _Bruce Wayne,_spreader of cash, undoer of women's virginity, and all-around _worthless_ waste."

Bruce did not take the hand. Instead, forcing himself to inhale deeply and trust his own voice, he said quietly, "Let her go."

The Joker let out a contorted laugh. He leaned in closer, raising his eyebrows innocently, "What, no panic room for you to _escape_ to, this time, so you've gone all _bold and brave?_"

Flinching again at the psychopath's closeness, Bruce wished desperately for his mask. Batman would have punched that whitened face by now--Batman would have struck the moment the Joker was within reach, but Bruce Wayne must always and forever more be considered a coward. Perhaps, without his mask, Bruce Wayne was indeed frightened. Perhaps even terrified.

"Move aside, pretty boy," the monster advised. His tone was dismissive, as if he had managed to examine Bruce's inner soul and found it lacking. "Nice to meet you and all, but I've got a... _date _with this lucky lady over here." He gestured to Giedre. "No hard feelings."

"She's my guest," Bruce said, truthfully, as if that explained everything.

"And _now_ she's mine--_my_ guest," the Joker answered him, sounding suddenly annoyed. He flicked out a knife, seemingly out of nowhere. "_Scoot_. Unless you'd care to join us?"

Neither option was viable, in Bruce's mind. He was saved from having to decide from among his choices--give in and move away, aim to bust the Joker's lip and hope his left fist was faster than the knife, or join Giedre as a hostage--by the sound of gunshots behind him. The screaming of the party guests was renewed. Panic descended almost immediately. A voice that Bruce most certainly identified as Commissioner Gordon's could be heard yelling:

"DOWN! EVERYBODY DOWN, NOW! ON THE FLOOR!"

Immediately the Joker sprang into action. He yanked a handgun from his cloak and fired it wildly overhead. "_UP!_" he roared, "EVERYONE UP! _ANY_BODY ON THE FLOOR GETS _SHOT!_"

Not knowing who each voice belonged to, but being certainly afraid of both, the crowd went for all the options simultaneously. Most of them were on their feet, fleeing in all directions, while others were on their knees. The few that somehow recognized Gordon's voice were obeying it and lying on the floor. Obviously incensed, the Joker aimed his handgun at one of these nearby, pressing the trigger, and for a single second Bruce's heart stopped. Fortunately for the civilian, all that occurred was an empty click. Apparently the Joker had used up all his bullets. Bruce didn't think that the monster's potential victim even knew that he had been targeted.

Before the madman could think about using his knife, Bruce lunged. It was stupid, when wearing only a tuxedo, to attack someone with something sharp in their hands--however, the billionaire was aiming for the nearby goon, not the Joker himself. Gordon could handle the monster this time. Bruce's priority was the ambassador. Worst case scenario, she would die in the chaos. The next worse was her being hurt. Gotham did not need the Joker to ruin its reputation permanently.

A punch to the side of the goon's head toppled him easily. Unfortunately his grip on Giedre's arm was firmer than Bruce thought, so the goon's fall dragged the frozen ambassador down as well. While Bruce bent to pull her up he received a blow from behind. Stars clouded his vision. He swayed--he'd obviously been hit with a blunt object, and he heard the clown's gun clatter to the floor. Rough hands seized his right arm and yanked him around. He was face-to-painted-face with a furious Joker, yet before either could say anything the monster abruptly swept behind him, twisting Bruce's right arm behind his back and holding it tightly. The billionaire's injured elbow ached at the jarring movement, pulsing viciously with every heartbeat. Considering that his heart was racing wildly this meant a near-constant pain. Almost crippling.

Bruce felt the older man's hot breath against his cheek--it stank, horribly. Something sharp and metal pressed against his throat. Looking up, he saw the only reason he was probably still alive: he was facing a very anxious-looking Commissioner Gordon, who had his gun trained on the billionaire--or, rather, on the madman hiding behind him. The partiers, still fleeing and screaming on all sides, were entirely ignored by policeman and criminal. At that single moment Bruce knew what Rachel had felt when the Joker had used her as a human shield while facing Batman, although somehow he doubted that Rachel had been in as much pain, or that she had felt as frustrated... but, he acknowledged, she likely had been just as frightened.

"Drop the knife, Joker," Gordon said, his voice strained with tension. "There's no point in anybody getting hurt."

"No point? No point!" A twisted laugh came from the region beside Bruce's ear. "Oh, Com-_missioner_, you are such a _riot!_"

The Joker's attention was elsewhere and Bruce decided to seize the chance. He jerked and twisted, but his captor must have somehow been expecting this, for his wiry hand clenched tighter and pulled Bruce's arm higher. There was only so much pressure his injured elbow could take: Bruce bit his lip to keep from screaming aloud.

"_Hush,_ now," he heard the Joker murmur quietly over his shoulder, "Everything will be fine, just _fine,_Brucie m'boy, if _you'll--just--hold--**still...**_"

"Bloody hell it will!" he hissed back, and was rewarded by a dark chuckle.

"Come on, Joker, there's no need for this," Gordon was saying. "You've been caught. I've got blockades around the whole building. Just give up."

"'_Just give up_'," mocked the clown. "Give up! _Give up?_ How 'bout _you_ give up! That's right, drop the shiny gun, or Mr. Wayne here will be sporting a _lively_ new smile for the ladies! What do you think Gotham will feel when her happy-go-lucky media sensation looks just like me, _eh?_"

Suddenly the blade was no longer at Bruce's throat, but hovering by his lips. His arm was lifted higher and he was nearly lost in agony.

"Last chance, Commissioner! _Drop_ the gun! I can promise there's _plenty_ of things I can do to Gotham's pretty _pet_ without killing him! Explain that one to the people, _mmn?_"

Gordon had never looked so hesitant, Bruce realized. He couldn't say anything, not while his arm was in such crippling pain, but internally he was screaming. '_SHOOT, DAMN IT! I DON'T MATTER--TAKE THE SHOT!_'

"AUGUSTE!" the Joker roared, kicking at the prone goon behind him. The masked man scrambled to his feet, one hand pulling Giedre up, while the other clutched at both his rifle and his aching head. He likewise thrust himself behind his captive, and suddenly Gordon was facing two hostages instead of one.

"You want _either_ of them dead?" the Joker jeered, "'Cause you _don't_ wanna know which one I'll choose _first!_ Now _drop_ it, Jimmy!"

Gordon really had no choice. He did as he was told.

"All right, then," said the Joker calmly, and he nodded to his minion. Who promptly shot the Commissioner.

Bruce let out a yell, but it was smothered by the Joker's gloved hand. "_Brucie, Brucie, Brucie_--do you mind if I call you that? _No?_ Good. Because, seein' as you've decided to come with us after all, you and I will need to get along, _hmm?_"

For just a moment, through the haze of his horror, Bruce thought he saw Gordon's prone form move, ever so slightly, but the next moment the body was obscured as he was forcefully dragged backwards through the shrieking mass of partygoers. The Joker let out another low, snort-like giggle as they passed Barnes' unconcious form. The end of the shrimp's toothpick was sticking out from the councilman's stuffed mouth.

Onward they went; out through the blast hole that the Joker had first blown in the back of the room. Bruce had just enough time to wonder why the Joker hadn't headed toward the hole in the first place, when he saw a white van with a masked man hanging from the side window.

"Hey, boss," the fellow asked, "How come you aren't up front? An' where's the other guys--"

He didn't get to finish his sentence. The Joker threw Bruce to the hard concrete ground, yanking the door open and pulling the goon from the vehicle. The man evidently knew enough not to protest this. When the Joker reached down to grab for him, however, Bruce lashed out with his good arm and clipped the clown on the chin. He was immediately set upon by the masked goons, both the one from the van and the one holding a shocked Giedre. Yet before he could fight back and attempt to seriously damage either of them, the Joker's angry snarl brought the proceedings to a halt.

"Just _what_ do you two think you're _doing?_ If _anyone's_ going to teach him some _manners,_that'll be _me!_"

Giedre shrieked as the monster seized and flung her into the van. Both goons took this as permission to enter as well. Lying on his back, Bruce could see Giedre staring worriedly through the doorframe. Her whitened face was suddenly obscured by the Joker's. For a moment the clown stood there, looming over his hostage, wiping a small fleck of blood from his split lip. He looked at it with interest, examining it as one does an interesting bug or a shiny jewel, almost as if he had never seen his own blood before. Then his brown eyes flickered back down to Bruce's wary face. They were sharp as knives--but Bruce could see the tiny hint of gross curiosity sparking behind them. Though he didn't know what this meant, he also didn't want to find out.

"Not _bad,_ not _bad,_ not _too_ bad..." murmured the Joker, as if in a stupor, before he unleashed a vicious kick into Bruce's ribs. His boots had steel tips. While the billionaire gasped for breath, the monster seized his hair and jerked his head back, hissing in his face, "For a _beginner_. Try _harder,_ next time, and you _might_ get _some_where!"

Bruce didn't bother to explain that he'd only punched with his left, or that his right could easily have done much worse, were it not in such a fragile state. As he was busy deciding whether it was wise to respond at all, he was flung into the van, the Joker stepping inside overtop him and not bothering to watch where he put his feet. The left boot missed Bruce's right elbow by mere inches, and Bruce shuddered inwardly to think how much stepping on the injury would have hurt.

"WELL?" the Joker bellowed at both goons, and the one who had previously seized Giedre immediately scrambled to take the driver's seat. The other fished about in the glove compartment and held up two sets of handcuffs.

"Say, boss, now that you're here, do y'think--"

"Of _course_ I _think,_ idiot," snarled the Joker, interrupting him and jabbing a finger at the two captives. As the goon applied the handcuffs to each, Bruce thought he heard the monster murmur, _"But whether _you_ think is another issue _en_-tirely..."_

"Onward, Auguste, or it'll be your head!" the Joker added, kicking at the back of the driver's seat. "Get a move on, or the cops will be on us! We don't want that _just_ yet, do we, understand?"

Obligingly the van began to move. Bruce heard the engine sputter nastily as the goon floored the gas pedal, sending the needle of the dashboard dial zooming upwards. Settling himself in the passenger seat, leaving his second goon in the back with his captives, the Joker began humming cheerily to himself.

They hadn't even driven half a block before the clown began shouting. "OH! No, no, _no!_ Wait! _Stop_ the car, you _imbecile!_"

The vehicle paused; the Joker flung himself out the side door so swiftly that Bruce had the disturbing idea that the clown needed to vomit. Instead of doubling over with dry heaves, however, the Joker doubled over in laughter.

"_Oho!_ You asked me if I _think,_ and I said _yes!_Silly me! About to prove myself wroooo_ng!_ I almost forgot, in all this _excitement_... aha ha ha..."

He stuck his hands in his trouser pockets, then into the cloak's breast pocket. "Where _is_ it, where _is_ it... ah..."

When he pulled his hand out, Bruce saw it held a mass of duct tape and circuitry. The billionaire didn't need to be an explosives expert to know what it was.

"Wait!" he shouted, "What do you think you're--"

He was silenced by a clout from the goon who had handcuffed him; outside, the Joker turned to peer into the van.

"Now now, children, play _nice_," the painted man chided, stifling a derisive snort before turning his gaze back to Barnes' home. "Brucie's just a curious lil' boy, isn't he? Don't worry, _kiddo_, you'll get the chance to do something like this--not _now,_o'course, but _maybe_ when you grow up..." his mocking statement was cut off by an unrestrained chuckle. Without another word, he pressed the lone red button on the handheld detonator.

There was another explosion. From inside the van, which did not have rear windows, Bruce could only hear the noise--as well as the horrible sound of screeching metal and falling debris. The Joker began to applaud at whatever he was viewing. Bruce could only pray that the building had not collapsed on the heads of everyone inside, for the Joker did not give him or Giedre the chance to look. Instead, leaping quickly back into the vehicle, the monster yelled, "On! On, on! The wheels on the bus go _round_ and _round,_ Auguste, or your head will be the one _rolli__ng!_ Move it!"

**000 Author's Notes 000 **

Anybody who is interested in hearing what Mozart's laugh in the movie _Amadeus_ sounds like should go to you tube and look up "Amadeus in 30 seconds." After that, you'll love the Joker's laugh even more. (Also, if anybody here hasn't seen _Amadeus,_ I really, truly, completely recommend it.)

A quick aside, simply because I can't resist: someone asked me if Temperance's first name is "Remember." Well, yes and no. She has a "Puritan-style" name, which sometimes consisted of phrases (such as "Remember Temperance," "Have Faith," "Praise God," "Make Peace," etc.) that were meant to remind the bearer (and everyone who knew him/her) to possess these virtues. Some Puritan-style names survive to the modern day, but they normally consist of just one word (Hope, Faith, Joy, Grace, Charity, Patience, etc.). So, technically, she has two first names: "Remember Temperance." Her last name is simply "Yates," which is Old English for "Gate." Normally I try to give my characters names that fit the time and place of their lives, but in this instance I couldn't stop myself, so Temperance has a Puritan name even though she comes from modern-day England. You can think she comes from a modern-day strict Protestant family if you like, but I'm not going to reveal any of that. (And yes, I am a "name" geek--this rare disease tends to strike people who aspire to be novelists in larger numbers than the general population. XP)

If you want to go even deeper, I'd also hint that her name is kind of ironic, considering her hidden temper, but I'm not entirely sure if I did this on purpose or not. I mean, it's possible... O.o

Thanks to the reviewers last time: Miravisu, dead2self, Deborah, Vanafindiel, Rosealinde, Heir to the World, Almost Funny, ally, Haladflire65, CountryPixie, Cricket Spinner, Dark.Morning, Thedarkknight17, Mickerayla, & Csillan.Rose. Double thanks to all repeat reviewers. Hugs.

Also thanks to all lovely readers! This story was made for yooooou! :D


	14. Joyriding

**IF THE FOUNDATIONS BE DESTROYED, WHAT CAN THE RIGHTEOUS DO?**

I don't own Batman. DC Comics does.

Please note that violence will occur in this story, and that less offensive words like "damn" will be used, but more offensive words will be "asterisked" out. Some sexuality will occur but never anything explicit. As of now this story is rated "T"--if any readers feel the rating needs to be raised, please contact me accordingly and it will be.

The reviewer "Vanafindiel" wants to know if Temperance will ever see action, especially against the Joker... long and short answer: I haven't decided and I'm afraid I will give too much away if I do respond, so you'll unfortunately (or fortunately, depending how you see it) have to wait and see. But I _would _like to say how happy people's reaction to Temperance makes me. I was afraid that Bruce's dislike of her (and hence her portrayal in the fic, seeing as this is from Bruce's perspective) would cause people to despise her with a vengeance. I mean, she's not intended to be lovable, but still... I also don't intend to over-use her, because that would make her boring, but I would just like to say that's she's important. My mouth is hereby sewed shut (and no, not by the Joker).

**Chapter Fourteen: Joyriding**

_Wednesday, 10:23 P.M._

The van was unstable. That was the all-encompassing conclusion Bruce had reached, as they pulled into general traffic. Their ride kept making odd noises; sputterings, creakings, groanings, and as they went over a hard bump there was a screeching sound that made him almost certain that the rusted floor would give out. Three times the vehicle stalled, and the masked clown driving it worked frantically to re-start the engine, which growled in protest. Merely turning the steering wheel a half inch made the entire structure groan terribly. This ride was unpredictable.

Like its master.

Of everyone present, only the Joker seemed to be having a good time. He had turned on the radio to hear static, so he had stabbed out the equipment with his knife. This seemed to have put him into a good mood. When the van stalled, he either burst into uproarious laughter or began berating the driver with several choice words. Most of his time was spent humming while looking out his window, leering at passing traffic, which seemed to satisfy him--for a short while, at least. Both of the unwilling passengers were ignored, until the van was halted by a red light. They were behind several other cars, Bruce noticed, and that possibly was the only reason the driver bothered to pause at all.

Bruce had barely managed to think this when the Joker whirled in his seat to face his captives. Beside the billionaire, the trembling Giedre shrank into an even smaller ball. Both she and Bruce were lying on the floor, the van's interior (with the exception of the two front seats) having been stripped. For the longest time the Joker said nothing, merely watching the both of them, though a sneer crossed his face at Giedre's muted whimper. The other goon--who was in the back with the hostages, seated on a long metal box along the side--seemed to take his master's reaction as a sign for him to do something.

"I have some duct tape, boss," he offered. "I can shut her up."

At that Bruce glowered. "You wouldn't dare."

The Joker said nothing: he did not even laugh at Bruce's commanding tone. He simply raised his eyebrows mockingly. Scarily enough, though, Bruce had the notion that the clown's expression was also caused by genuine surprise. Perhaps, Bruce decided, he was letting some of Batman's personality shine through Bruce Wayne's "coward playboy" routine. Maybe he should have kept quiet--after all, duct tape really wouldn't hurt the ambassador. If he was going to keep his double life secret, he had better play his role better. Even while in this situation. Who knew what the Joker would do if he found out who Bruce Wayne truly was?

He kept this thought in mind when the rebuffed goon aimed a kick at his ribs. The whoosh of air that came from his lungs exited in the form of a gasped curse. Though she was obviously terrified, Giedre still had the same sense of propriety, and she gave him a small glare for this. For his part Bruce wondered how badly her priorities were screwed up, if she was concerned over the language used while being kidnapped away to what would likely be a most unpleasant death. How utterly _un_like Rachel...

But the goon was not finished. Two more blows, and he said tauntingly, "Seems like she's not really the one who needs it. Got anything to say before I plaster over your mouth?"

Bruce considered telling the man what he could truly do with his roll of duct tape, but then the Joker's voice interrupted, "_Ah,_ leave him."

"Boss?" the goon asked. If he had not been wearing a sad clown mask, Bruce imagined that his face would be utterly befuddled. At the moment the billionaire was experiencing a bit of confusion himself. Instead of being giddy or high-pitched, the Joker's voice had been deceptively calm, low, and serene. It was the sort of semi-regretful tone one would expect a weary father to have while speaking to his children.

"He...hmmn... _amuses _me." This time the Joker's statement was accompanied by a dark chortle. When Bruce turned his eyes from the downcast goon to the goon's master, he nearly leapt to his feet in fright. Those brown eyes were focused on him, with such a look of intensity that Bruce truly believed he was about to be attacked. The Joker looked like a wild animal, staring at his prey, hunched over and ready to pounce. As soon as his own blue eyes met the brown ones, Bruce looked away. He didn't enjoy how the Joker's steady gaze seemed to be probing at his insides. It was as if the monster somehow was trying to stare straight into Bruce's brain and read the mind within...

Instead of looking entertained at Bruce's sudden reticience, however, the Joker merely pursed his red lips and let his head rest on the back of his hand, which clutched the back of his chair, his sight trailing up to the van's roof. It was such a thoughtful expression that Bruce, who glimpsed it from the corner of his eye, couldn't help but shudder when he wondered what demented ideas were filling that painted head.

Whatever they were, the Joker's ponderings were interrupted by the tell-tale sound of helicopter blades. Suddenly the lunatic became animated--more animated than Bruce had seen him, thus far. He shifted in his seat excitedly, giddily clapped his hands, and whooped, "_Took_ them long enough!"

The next moment he was peering up through the van's windows, his eager face so close to the glass that it almost left smears of oil-based paint, all in an innocently excited manner that uncomfortably reminded Bruce of a spoiled child. When the helicopter blindly passed by overhead, he let out an amused shriek: "_Fools!_ Do we have to plant a _target_ on the roof for you to spot us?"

Once more he whirled about in his seat, this time holding out an impatient hand, fingers twitching in anticipation. "Give _it,_ give _it,_ give _it!_"

Fortunately for the goon in the back, he seemed to know what the Joker was referring to. Leaping off the long metal box, he flipped the top open, only to pause uncertainly. "Uh...which one?"

"DOES IT _LOOK_ LIKE I _CARE,_ YOU MORONIC PIECE OF TALKING _FLESH?!_" roared the clown unexpectedly, while his hand clenched to a fist in frustration. "JUST _GIMME!_"

His goon, obviously not ready for his master's yelling, had toppled forward into the box while in the throes of surprise. The Joker's fist pounded the back of his chair in obvious frustration. At last the goon hauled himself upright once more, and, seizing an assault rifle (Bruce did not know the specific model) from the confines of the box, handed it over immediately. Bruce's heart leapt to his throat when the Joker used the rifle's butt to smash his window out, before leaning through and pointing the rifle tip to the sky.

"_Here,_" he crowed, "since you need a bit of _assistance!_"

Once his first few shots were heard, the surrounding cars began to veer in all directions. Some halted completely, their drivers staring open-mouthed at the white van weaving through traffic, the Joker hanging out its passenger window and shooting randomly upwards. Even if he hadn't been shooting for the sake of shooting, it would have been unlikely that the clown would have hit anything, seeing as the van was swerving wildly at top speed around stopped cars in a chaotic zig-zag; but this didn't make Bruce feel any better about the situation. Someone was going to be hurt, he was sure of it. Mask or no mask, Bruce would not--could not--allow himself to let that happen.

When the van became trapped behind a slower-moving car, the masked goon driving chose to pump his horn. The Joker chose to pump the car with lead. And Bruce, deciding that this was a bit too close to killing someone for his taste, twisted his body around on the floor, delivering a kick to the back of the madman's chair. This had the effect of unseating the clown for a second, tilting the gun barrel down. Flecks of bullet spray hit the asphalt and bounced back up onto the van's front, ricocheting against the windshield and leaving spider-webbed cracks all over. One fleck of lead made it entirely through the glass, leaving a neat little hole, zooming past the psychopath's head and lodging itself in the ceiling, where it pinned several strands of green hair that it had snagged. Unpeturbed, the Joker howled with giddy laughter, kicking his feet against the groaning van floor in overwhelmed delight.

The other goon's reaction was quite the opposite. He growled angrily, and, seizing another rifle from the box, brought the rear end down, aiming for Bruce's skull. Fortunately the billionaire saw this coming; he managed to jerk his head to the side fast enough to avoid the impact. Giedre's suppressed yelp of surprise and fear caught the Joker's attention.

"Y'know, I've had just about _enough _of you," the monster complained to his minion, before breaking into a cheshire grin. His smile was made all the more frightening and eager-looking by his blood-red scars. "You need a _job_ to keep yourself busy?"

Instead of stopping immediately, the goon delivered Bruce one more kick, and also paused to leer at the shaking Ambassador Giedre, before turning to his master. The Joker quirked an eyebrow at this.

"What would you like, boss?" The goon's voice sounded excited at the prospect of helping.

"Open the door, an' aim _up,_" instructed the clown, his free hand waving in an elaborate flourish. Bruce nearly groaned when he saw how the monster had lowered his rifle's barrel at his minion. Once the goon had complied, his master asked innocently, "Are you _sure_ you can aim while we're flyin' _all over_ like this?"

"Oh, sure boss."

"Good," came the response, "Hold the trigger _tightly,_ now."

With that, the Joker sprayed him with bullets. Giedre let out a genuine scream as speckles of crimson blood rained down on her and Bruce, who could only frown in disgust and horror. The goon's body toppled out of the car.

"Hopefully you were able to hit _something!_" the Joker called out, in a sing-song voice, although it was unlikely the goon could still hear him. As he turned back to the passenger window, though, Bruce thought he heard the clown mutter darkly, _"And _hope_fully you learned your _lesson_ about bullying what's_ **mine_..._**_"_

_'If I was that other minion of his, I'd be pretty nervous right now,' _was Bruce's main thought.

Luckily for the driving goon he'd found a way around the slower car, and they were now speeding wildly down the street, careening from side to side, sending cars flying off the road in random directions. Somewhere along their route the helicopter above had picked up the Joker's hint, and was now flying much higher than before, as well as training a bright searchlight on the vehicle. When the blinding light first appeared through the windows, the Joker let out a whoop of joy.

"Finally! Picked a _dense_ bunch of blockheads this time, haven't we, goody-goody _Gordon?_ Oh well, don't worry; I'll...aha ha...I'll teach them how to _play_..."

As Bruce contemplated giving the Joker's chair another blow once the older man started firing again, his planning was interrupted when said clown turned briefly in his seat to face his captive.

"And you! Think you're so _brave_, eh? Well, kick this chair _again_ and you'll _lose_ that foot! _Then_ you can see how long the pretty _lady_ will last without her _big strong man _protecting her! Hmmn?"

Bruce glowered back, which only sent the madman into peals of laughter.

"Oho, aha, you're _just_ like a little growling puppy, Brucie, it's _soooo_ adorable! _Ha!_"

Without another word the Joker abruptly turned to focus on the overhead helicopter. Bruce wondered what the clown's attention span was.

"We're going to die, aren't we?" Giedre's quiet voice reached his ears, and Bruce saw for the first time how badly she was shaking. She had curled herself up into a tight ball (well, as tight as she could with her hands handcuffed behind her back, anyway), and had firmly wedged herself against the wall, but this did little to support her trembling frame. The billionaire pitied her, intensely, in that moment--he sympathized with her as an individual, as herself, instead of who she happened to resemble. The ambassador was as terrified as every other person would be in this situation. For his part, Bruce was experiencing that terror himself. Still--he probably shouldn't lie to her...

"Yeah," he said, after a few moments. "Yeah, we're probably done for."

A quick look of confusion on Giedre's face showed him that she didn't understand his turn of phrase, but she obviously got the gist of its meaning. As a foreigner she only spoke English as a secondary language, Bruce reminded himself, so he supposed he ought to not use colloquialisms. Funny how he'd never noticed that about her before. Even funnier that he was only noticing it now, during a life-and-death situation.

"I... I don't understand," Giedre told him. "Who _is_ this man? He's acting odd..."

Bruce grimaced--it seemed that he would have to tell her about the Joker. This was something that should have been done long ago, before she had even arrived, but unfortunately he had gone along with Garcia's desire to keep the Arkham breakout quiet. It was only fitting, he supposed, that he was now in this situation, after being part of the "conspiracy of silence"--but Giedre did not deserve any of this. Still... hindsight was 20-20, but it could also blind one to the present.

"He's called the Joker," Bruce whispered, softly, so the person he was speaking about wouldn't overhear. "He... well, seven months ago in Gotham he blew up a hospital and caused general mayhem... the cops finally got him and locked him up in the nuthouse, but, as you can see, he's escaped."

"But what does he want?"

Bruce tried to think back on the one time when the Joker had attempted to explain to him--no, to _Batman_--his motivations. None of it had really made much sense--the Joker had been attempting to explain that he didn't believe in any rules, although this didn't necessarily mean he _needed_ to do what he did, nor did it specifically give him a _reason_ to act this way...

"I don't know," he said. Even if he could somehow quickly puzzle out what little shreds of evidence he'd gleamed from his interrogation of the Joker, it had been Batman who had done the interrogation, not Bruce Wayne, who was unlikely to know that much about the Joker anyway. He could not give Giedre the answer even if he discovered it. In any case, he doubted if any amount of pondering could reveal any line of logic running through the Joker's mind...

"I think he just wants to hurt people," Bruce said, finally, "And... well, let's just say that this is a very, very bad day for not only us, but Gotham as well. Maybe even the world." He didn't want to just leave it at that, however; he was desperately searching his mind to find any ray of light in this situation. Being kidnapped by the monster of his nightmares was not exactly productive to optimism, any optimism, so he kept coming up with nothing.

"Now, _now,_ kiddies, don't be _too _down," the Joker's voice suddenly interrupted. Bruce gave a start, and Giedre bowed her head to the floor, hiding her face while dissolving into a fit of trembles. A quick glance revealed to Bruce that the monster was not looking at them, but instead facing forward and fiddling with the ammunition of his rifle. The gun had jammed.

Bruce, for his part, was shocked and more than a little afraid. How, with the noise of the helicopter overhead, had the Joker overheard their whispers? And, more importantly, what would he do about it?

"You both need to _laugh_ a bit more, _smile_ a bit more... and you'd better start _soon,_ or I might have to _show_ you _how_." A faint creasing was visible on the Joker's scarred cheeks, signs that he was smiling, aware that he had their total attention. He uttered a hoarse laugh. "_Show_ you... aha... if _only_ I had the time... time later, maybe..."

He shook his head, green-tinged wavy hair obscuring his eyes.

"Hmmmnn, but only after... _after _showing _them..._"

Suddenly the Joker leapt from his seat, haphazardly flinging his useless firearm out the passenger window. Like a panther, he used the seat's back to springboard over the prone captives--only to slip when he landed on the puddle of blood from the goon he'd previously shot. For a minute or two he lay there beside Bruce and Giedre, laughing uproariously, completely ignoring that his back was being coated crimson. He seemed to enjoy the sensation of sliding around on the floor while the van swerved.

"_HA! _If I'd known you two were having _this_ much _fun_ down here, I'd of put _you _in the front seats and laid back here m'self..."

"THIS IS THE GOTHAM CITY POLICE. DRIVE YOUR VEHICLE TO THE SIDE OF THE ROAD, AND WAIT FOR THE AUTHORITIES TO ARRIVE."

The helicopter's sudden announcement seemed to remind the Joker of its presence. Scrambling to his feet, the clown shouted, "Same to _you,_ buddy!"

Bruce withheld another groan when he saw the monster begin digging in the metal box. A particular swerve of the van slammed the box's lid shut, nearly clipping the Joker's gloved fingers, and he angrily gave the metal frame a kick, shrieking, _"BEHAVE!" _He then returned to digging once more. The billionaire contemplated giving the monster's rear a good kick, which would have sent the fiend flying into the box itself. But before he could manuver to even theoretically attempt such a thing, the Joker had already pulled out a rather nasty-looking weapon, one that had what Bruce could only describe as possessing a bulging missile on the end.

Two words ran through Bruce's mind: '_Not good._'

"Are we _there_ yet?" the Joker suddenly asked, sounding for all the world like a tired and frustrated teenager, complaining to his parents about a road trip. The goon in the driver's seat answered quickly, as if eager to please.

"Not quite..."

"THEN _FASTER,_ AUGUSTE, _FASTER!_" the Joker hollered, "OR IT'S THE CHOPPING BLOCK FOR _YOU!_"

Somehow the van managed to gain even more speed. Luckily for everyone involved, the goon kept the van on the correct side of the street. A quick glimpse out of the side door showed Bruce that they were downtown, with high skyscrapers looming all around them. He caught just the briefest glance of Wayne Tower, before realizing that, from their speed and the direction they were headed, they would be near the Mayor's Building in a few minutes.

'_What's he planning?_' Bruce thought, near panicked at the revelation of just how close to the city's center they were. If the Joker used his weapon _here_...

"There!" squealed the madman, pointing energetically. "Oh, _turn_ Auguste! Right _there!_"

Bruce didn't get the chance to see what made the clown so excited. The van made an abrupt swerve, rolling him and Giedre to the far side, away from the open door. More curses were uttered under the billionaire's breath, and Giedre must not have heard. Or else she did, but didn't care, for she gave no reaction either way.

"PULL YOUR VEHICLE TO THE SIDE OF THE ROAD..."

"_Shaddup,_ you!" came a frustrated yell from the Joker, waving his fist angrily at the helicopter above. "Always _whining_ and _com-_plain_-ing..._"

It was just then that the van stalled. From his position on the floor, Bruce could feel the innards of their ride shuddering, quivering almost as much as Giedre currently was. He suspected that something terrible was going to occur to their driver, and pitied the man, although deep inside some nasty little part of him snarled that anybody who worked for this monster deserved whatever he got. Yet the monster did nothing. Instead the Joker merely shook his head in mock shame, delivered a derisive snort, and fairly grumbled, "Auguste, you _will_ be the death of yourself--"

"PULL YOUR VEHICLE--"

"THAT'S _IT!_" roared the clown, lifting the weapon to his shoulder, "THE _LAST_ STRAW! NO MORE MISTER NICE JOKER!"

He fired the missile.

Bruce's throat was frozen--and it wasn't like saying anything could stop what was happening, anyway. By craning his head, through the doorframe and around the Joker's silhouette, he caught sight of the Mayor's building. Almost faster than he could follow, the missile struck the side of it; for a moment the glass rippled and pulsed, almost like a pond's surface after being struck by a stone. Yet this must have been only an illusion, for the horrible sound of shattering windows forcefully struck Bruce's ears. Flames scorched at his eyes... but he could not tear his sight away. It was almost as if he had to see this, to witness what occurred, although he could not fathom why.

Was this somehow his way of punishing himself? Of showing himself what his mistakes had caused? Perhaps he could have done better--perhaps he could have acted against the Joker at Barnes' house, stopping him there--perhaps he could even have simply let the damned clown _fall_ that night seven months ago, that horrible night when he'd chosen to instead catch the monster by the ankle, leaving him hanging there for the cops. The Joker's words rang in his ears:

_"You...you just couldn't let me _go,_ could you?"_

Now the same psychopath was laughing, holding his sides in mirth, and it was obvious he was attempting to breathe but failing drastically. When the ball of descending fire swallowed up the hovering helicopter, the monster's hysterics seemed to double. He was on his knees then, panting and gasping for breath.

"_OHO_, oho ho ha, haa haaa ha_AAA_aaa--_urghh,_" his choked heave barely gave his lungs enough air before he succumbed to merriment again. Through his snickers and desperate attempts for oxygen, his wheezing words were jumbled and almost inaudible.

"Toooooo--_uhurg_--t-tooooo--_ha! ha!_--p-p-per_haaa haaa haa_--_uhnugh_--t-t-tooo--_oho, oho_--_huuuuhhhnngg_--p-perf-f-ect!"

Once again the van had started up, and surged forward. The sudden lurch swept the Joker over on his side, where he lay practically helpless, dissolving into a fit of snorting giggles. His head dangled outside the van's door, and was nearly taken off when the vehicle entered into a tunnel that Bruce vaguely realized must have been part of Gotham's lower streets. Behind and above them, Bruce could hear more explosions, more crashes and the cackling of flames, as well as the screaming of tires and... was that people? Doubtless the fireball had descended to the street below, which even now was consumed with panic. Having finally mastered his laughing fit, the Joker managed to stand, and Bruce could see that his brown eyes were greedy to witness the carnage occurring above them.

"Have a _niiiiice daaaay!_" he called out, as the van swept along alone in the tunnel. Briefly the sound of the Joker's high-pitched giggling once again filled the tensely silent gloom, before by sheer force of will he quieted himself. Turning, the clown stepped obliviously over both captives, settling down into the passenger's seat once more.

"Ah... I _missed_ this," he sighed, and inwardly Bruce cursed him with all his heart.

**000 Author's Notes 000**

Thanks to all my lovely reviewers: Almost Funny, Haladflire65, Heir to the World, SKY, Mickerayla, Padfoot n' Moony, Deborah, Vanafindiel, Thedarkknight17, CountryPixie, Incarnate009, vballmania23, Miravisu, & dead2self...double thanks to repeat reviewers, as always. ;)

The critiques on the Joker were very helpful. :D I'm trying to balance what I view the Joker's character to be, judging from Heath Ledger's portrayal in the movie, with how my readers perceived him. Thanks to all who helped out. He seems to be troubling me because he has an odd mixture of joking and seriousness that none of the other characters share... so if he ever strays too far out to one extreme or the other, you'll have to all let me know. This chapter mainly showcased his "funny" side, but I always worry about going over the top...I also hope that his personality here also fits with his personality in the last chapter. :\

Also a shout-out to all my readers! If you like this so far, don't worry--much, much more to come!


	15. Honesty

**IF THE FOUNDATIONS BE DESTROYED, WHAT CAN THE RIGHTEOUS DO?**

I don't own Batman. DC Comics does.

Please note that violence will occur in this story, and that less offensive words like "damn" will be used, but more offensive words will be "asterisked" out. Some sexuality will occur but never anything explicit. As of now this story is rated "T"--if any readers feel the rating needs to be raised, please contact me accordingly and it will be.

**Chapter Fifteen: Honesty**

_Wednesday, 11:42 P.M._

All the way along the tunnel, the Joker was humming, tapping his foot in an erratic beat against the dashboard. He did not carry a tune well. Bruce could not even identify what the precise song was, although the billionaire did catch a few notes that sounded suspiciously like "Three Blind Mice." After a while he tuned out the lunatic's bizarre attempts at music. The masked goon behind the steering wheel likewise gave no indication that he heard his master. On and on they went, the van never slowing or stopping, their drive seemingly dragging on forever.

Only once more did the Joker address his captives during the ride. This occurred after Bruce, wanting to know the hour but having his hands cuffed behind his back, was forced to wiggle onto his side so Giedre could see his wristwatch.

"What time is it?" he asked her.

"Eleven fifty-eight," responded the Joker immediately, before the ambassador could answer. "_Hap_py Thursday."

The nonsensical humming resumed. Giedre said nothing.

But before he could stop himself, Bruce found that his manners had absurdly taken control of his voice, for he murmured, "Thanks."

Although the humming did not cease, the tapping of the monster's foot paused for a split second. Then it continued on, as if it had never halted, and Bruce spent the rest of the drive silently cursing his mouth. Why, oh, why, had his mind suddenly decided to make politeness into a habit? Far too often Alfred had scolded him for being a rude upstart, especially during his childhood--but now, while being held hostage, he was politely _thanking_ his captor, who also happened to be none other than the monster of his nightmares. Bruce was unsure if Alfred would be proud or upset at this development. He occupied himself with debating this question--not because it was altogether very important, but because it was something innocuous to think about. Anything was better than dwelling on what had just occurred in the past few hours.

Hopefully most of the people working in the Mayor's Building were at home, sleeping the night away. And hopefully most of the screaming Bruce had heard on the street above had been from merely shocked onlookers, rather than anyone hurt. Perhaps Councilman Barnes' house was still intact and uncollapsed, despite the second explosion the Joker had triggered; and, most of all, maybe, just maybe, Commissioner Gordon was still alive, being safely taken to a hospital somewhere.

Unless he saw evidence to the contrary, Bruce decided he would believe these things. The alternatives were too terrible to accept.

What seemed like no more than fifteen minutes later, the van slowed to a halt, and the Joker made his way to the side door. When he flung it open, Bruce found himself facing the wrong end of a half-dozen large automatic rifles. His eyes must have widened; for, when the Joker looked down at him, the clown smiled grimly.

"_'Morning,_ gents," the monster greeted the men outside. "Might I present our _guest_, the _lovely_ Ambassador!"

Bruce didn't protest when the clown seized the woman lying petrified on the van floor; he merely glared, silently, as if to wordlessly warn their maniacal captor that he should be on his best behavior. The Joker only seemed amused. He winked at the billionaire, exaggeratedly, before pulling Giedre to her feet and displaying her, his sinewy hands clenched on her bound arms, like she was a trophy. Cat-calls and whistles came from the rifle-bearing cronies. On the van's floor, Bruce gritted his teeth. What Giedre must have been feeling at that moment...

"Be _gentle_ with her, fellas," continued the Joker, as he lowered her out of the van and into their waiting hands. "She's..._fragile._ We don't want her to... _eh_-heh... _break,_ do we?"

_"Not right **now**, anyway,"_ the clown murmured quietly, turning back to lift Bruce up. The billionaire would have considered struggling, if only for the principle of the thing, but somehow the Joker's muttered statement seemed to drain all the fight out of him.

It had suddenly struck home to Bruce just how much power the Joker possessed in this situation. True, he could possibly bloody the clown up a little--okay, maybe a lot--this would probably only serve to make the monster angry. Furthermore, not knowing who Bruce usually masqueraded as during the nighttime, the Joker would not likely hold back if he wanted to kill the billionaire: nor, without the protection of his armor, would it be very difficult for him to do so. Once again Bruce wished for the relative safety of his suit--and when the Joker lifted him, brutally yanking him up by his right arm, he wished even more fervently for Batman's mask. Behind that facade he could hide everything. Here, as Bruce Wayne, he could only bite his lip and hope the agony subsided before anyone noticed.

"_Aw,_ don't be a _whiner,_" was the Joker's only response to Bruce's slight grunt of pain. The clown's wiry hand roughly jerked his injured elbow, hauling him out of the van. "_No_body likes a wimp; just _tough_ it out, kiddo, I'm not squeezin' _that_ hard..."

As if to prove his point, the maniac gripped even tighter. Strong enough to bruise. Fortunately Bruce was able to suppress his reaction, although his elbow was certainly complaining loudly at the treatment. He'd refused to explain his injury to Alfred, who was his best friend--there was no way he was going to tell the Joker, of all people (if you could call the monster a "person"), about it. Silence was his only other option, when in this much pain, so he said nothing as he was flung into what felt like a wooden kitchen chair.

There was a brief moment when his handcuffs were loosened, but beforehand the Joker jerked his painted head in the direction of Giedre. She had already been bound to her own chair, her hands stuck between the bars of the back and then handcuffed again behind the rungs. Her head was bowed in what looked like defeat. Bruce strongly hoped that her depression was only temporary, or even just an act, because if not then he might be the only one with the wits left to plot their escape. But he understood what the Joker was silently telling him almost immediately: cooperate, for the ambassador was already secure under the monster's power, and there was no telling what would happen to her if he resisted. To show his acquiescence, Bruce merely nodded back, not trusting his voice enough to agree verbally.

A ghost of a smile hovered on the Joker's lips--though the one on his cheeks was as broad as ever. The billionaire tried not to shudder when he wondered what this meant. There was an omnious look in those mud-colored eyes...

'_He likes control,_' Bruce realized, and his suspicion was confirmed when, having finished cuffing him, the Joker straightened up and patted the billionaire's head, in the manner one would pet an obedient dog. Because he was standing behind his captive, Bruce could not see the clown's face; nonetheless, he could just picture the image of his captor smirking down at him.

"Good boy," the clown purred, although from his tone it was obvious that this was anything but honest praise. It was more like... like utter mockery, Bruce supposed. He must have been correct in this supposition, too, for the Joker abruptly broke down into derisive sniggering. Suddenly the monster's hand descended with a sharp slap to Bruce's temple. The billionaire could only wince.

"A_ha_, Brucie, Brucie, _Brucie_--where's the _'tough guy'_ from the van? Don't tell me... I'm somehow _less_ threatening with a _gun_ in my hands? Or... perhaps _lying_ on the _floor_ covered up your _yellow_ belly? Maybe... was it _Auguste?_ Yes, that's it. Next to that snivelling moron, even _you_ would look brave... ah, that _reminds_ me..."

Bruce was so busy fuming, resisting the urge to somehow lash out, that he almost didn't notice the lurking presence of the goon who had driven the van. This fellow was the only one of the assembly who wore a clown mask. When the Joker singled him out, this man froze.

"_You_ think you can come have _fun_ with us? After your driving skills _once again_ failed me so _miserably?_" the Joker demanded, when he saw the masked man. "Oh, just--just go... go _away,_ Auguste, I just can't _stand_ the _sight_ of you. Not _now,_ at least. Go... go _cower_ somewhere and I'll be around later to give you the thrashing you _deserve..._"

Head down, the one remaining masked clown shuffled off to the farthest corner, like a disappointed canine. If he'd had a tail, Bruce thought it would be between his legs.

Licking his lips compulsively in his agitation, the Joker turned back to his captives. A weary smile creased his scarred cheeks. He shuffled his way to Giedre, lifting her bowed head up by the chin.

"You'll have to _forgive_ my yelling," he said, calmly, "You see, up until _recently_ I've been under an enforced curfew... it's past my... uh, _usual_... bedtime, you see?"

Bruce didn't know what the clown expected would result from his erratic behavior, but the Ambassador did not respond, so he turned back to Bruce. When he saw the billionaire's deep scowl, the clown broke into amused chortling--this did not have the time to develop into deeper laughter, for he was interrupted. A small man rushed into the room, squealing,

"Boss! Boss! Wendigo just called! He's pissed!"

No sooner had these words reached his ears than the Joker's smile fell, and he groaned. "What is it _this_ time? Did he stub his toe? Realize his _mommy_ no longer loves him? Perhaps his _dinner_ bit _back,_ for _once?_"

With that, the Joker held out his open hand expectantly. Bruce noticed how the gloved fingers suddenly began to twitch almost uncontrollably. Oddly enough, the clown grimaced when he saw his fingers spasming, although he proceeded to ignore the seemingly involuntary motions. Briefly the billionaire wondered at this, for the Joker he had known had not been given to small tremors.

"He's on the landline," the small goon said, dumbly, after realizing that his master's open palm was anticipating a cell phone.

With a hiss of displeasure, the Joker immediately shoved his way past the minion, muttering something about incompetence, only pausing to twirl theatrically about. He bowed exaggeratedly, his smile wide and deceptively forced, saying, "Please _excuse_ me, dear guests, my _baby-sitting_ duties call..."

One more elaborate flourish, and he was gone. Now that the Joker's presence was not there to overwhelm his senses, Bruce was suddenly able to focus on the rest of the room. It was some sort of storage area, medium-to-large sized, with three separate doors leading who knew where--and it must have all been underground, for Bruce did not remember the van emerging from Gotham's subterranean tunnels during their drive. Was this a service area, then? The place where the city stored equipment, like street-cleaners and salt for the roads in winter? There were several large wooden crates without any labels in the far corner (by which the Joker's remaining clown-masked goon was sulking), but aside from a rickety card table, some more chairs and stools, and the white van, the place was bereft of furnishings; even the floor was cold hard concrete. In the ceiling the lights were rather weak for the large space, failing to reach the corners of the room and making them into dark pits of inky blackness. No sort of identification, whether numbers or otherwise, could be seen on the cold grey cinder-block walls.

Having finished his examination of their surroundings, Bruce turned to Giedre. The ambassador was deathly still. He said her name, softly, but her only response was to start silently shaking her head, without once looking up. She seemed to be in some sort of daze. Watching her, Bruce decided it would probably be best to let her have some peace. Perhaps she would snap out of her shock.

Movement from the group of the Joker's cronies caught the billionaire's eye. Several of them were pointing at Giedre, jabbing their thumbs in nonchalant and aloof gestures, while their faces told quite the different story. They were leering at her, their eyes greedy.

This was bad, Bruce realized: very, very bad. Giedre had a relatively nice face--and besides that, she was female. He had the feeling that he would find himself called upon to protect her. And probably sooner rather than later. _How_ he could do so while tied to a chair, however, was a mystery...

Fortunately, the Joker arrived back before the mulling group of men could attempt anything. From the shadows he scowled angrily at his minions, the black patches around his narrowed brown eyes making his face seem like a skull, with the red around his lips looking like drops of blood.

"_None_ of you better be thinking what I _think_ you are!" he snarled at them, "They are _MINE,_ you _hear_ me? MINE! If any of you even so much as _attempt_ something even _slightly_ like you're thinking, you'll certainly get an _earful_ from me!"

As if to demonstrate his ire, he whipped out a knife, twirling it menacingly and quite expertly between his fingers. Bruce had a sudden notion that an "earful" was not simply a stern lecture, and decided he didn't want to know more.

"_Now, _then," the Joker continued, his voice dropping to a raspy near-whisper. This didn't necessarily make him any quieter, however, for the room seemed to somehow amplify the sound. "What do you all think about _this?_ I agree to one thing--_One. Measly. Thing._--and it seems as if good old Wendigo thinks he can dictate **rules** to me. Him? Tell _me_ what to do? Oh, no, no, _no_; Mr. _Toothy_ isn't going to lord himself _allllll_ over _me._ I have a little bit of fun, and he balks... _ahhhh_. What I have to put up with..."

Shaking his painted head in mock shame, the monster then broke out into a grin. "We seem to have dearly put him into a... a_hem_... tizzy _this_ time--good job, 'gents!"

He burst into forced and all-too-obviously fake laughter, causing the group of lingering cronies to hesitantly laugh alongside him. This only continued for a few seconds, though, for the Joker ceased his pretend amusement abruptly and jabbed an accusing finger at one of his men who had remained silent.

"_You_--aren't _you_ the one who carried in the last shipment?"

The quiet man had the look of a deer caught in Bruce's Lamborghini headlights. Everyone was immediately serious--the other cronies started backing away from the man that the clown had singled out, as if he was somehow explosive and ready to blow. To Bruce's horror, he realized that the Joker had begun twirling his knife more animatedly, making a few parrying thrusts, in a manner that reminded the billionaire of a golfer practicing for his big swing. Immediately the billionaire turned to his fellow captive.

"Don't look," he warned Giedre. Once more she did not respond, but her head remained bowed. Just as well, Bruce supposed; he did likewise. This did not stop him from hearing what was happening, however.

Above the targeted man's terrified attempts at explanation, the Joker's voice nonetheless continued to accuse.

"What's this about our _good friend _Wendigo being so pissed? What did you _do,_ you _louse,_ you _upstart?_ I take you in... in, in off the street... and you thought it would be fun to... aha... _play_ with _guns,_ eh? Did you _enjoy_ blowing up the Mayor's office, huh? And the house of our good Councilman Garcia! ...Have you no _shame?_ Eh? He's the one who warned us about the _Batman_ being up to no good! _What_--oho, just _what_--were you thinking?"

In his confusion, Bruce nearly lifted his head to watch; why would the Joker blame the same deeds he had just performed on a goon who had not even been present? Was this simply an excuse, an imaginary reason to be angry, or did the Joker honestly no longer remember? Perhaps... perhaps this was some sick version of a joke? Luckily Bruce did not open his eyes--for, immediately after the monster's last sentence, a tortured scream erupted. Giedre jerked on her chair. Bruce shut his eyes tighter, wishing he could at least plug his ears. There was a startled cry from the onlookers, which was superseded by a horrifying gurgling noise. Like someone was drowning--only, if so, it was definitely not in water, for the coppery smell of blood filled the air. Having smelled that scent far too often, Bruce knew it all too well to pretend it was anything different.

"All _right,_" the Joker's voice sounded, calmly, once silence had descended again. "Cut him up, 'gents, but kindly _remove_ him first. Can't have the _lady_ seeing anything, _ohhhh_ no..."

There was the sound of something heavy being dragged along, and when Bruce's eyes opened he saw only a long bloody smear on the floor. The Joker was absentmindedly scuffing at it with a steel-tipped toe, his eyes distant, before they came into hard focus once again.

"OH!" He exclaimed, as if in sudden inspiration, "And _do _send his head to Wendigo! Tell our good Dr. Lecter that it's a sign of my... _goodwill_... and say that I expect _equal_ back when I need it... _Need it..._ ha... as _if..._ but, who to carry my little present..."

He whirled about, nearly prancing as he paced, seemingly slightly giddy from all the carnage he had wreaked over the night. His jerky motions were like those of a toddler attempting to keep himself awake.

"Leh'see... _who_ to send, _who _to send, ahh_hhh_..." turning, jabbing his bloody knife in the air to demonstrate his ire, the Joker called, "_AUGUSTE!_ Get over here, you _worth_less mutt!"

Scrambling forward almost blindly, the remaining man wearing a clown mask was in such a hurry to step forward that he tripped over his own feet. The only thing that prevented him from colliding headfirst with his master was that the Joker had the good sense to step back, as if he were somehow expecting this to happen. Looking down at the sprawled heap, the monster could only shake his head and sigh, "Fool... what am I going to _do_ with you? Even I am not _this_ bad..."

Somehow the masked man gained his feet. He stood, shuffling nervously, before the painted clown, and asked, "Boss?"

"Didn't you _hear_ me?" the Joker snapped back. "GO! Go _on,_ and deliver my little present!"

For emphasis the clown pointed his finger commandingly, in a seemingly random direction. At least, Bruce assumed it was random direction, for it was aimed slightly downward, and they were already underground, so it was unlikely that whoever this "Wendigo" was would be farther below.

The masked man did not ask any more questions. He scrambled from the room like his life depended it. And, knowing the Joker, it probably was.

"_He's crazy,_" came a soft, almost imperceptible voice, beside Bruce's chair. The billionaire jerked in surprise and turned to face Giedre, who finally had lifted her head. Her brown eyes were filled with fear--but this reaction was a definite improvement to her simply shutting down, for now she seemed not only aware of the surroundings but was also attempting to communicate with him.

Unfortunately, the Joker also heard.

His swagger as he approached the two bound captives was an overly smooth, easygoing stroll, which Bruce was certain belied the clown's true intentions. When the Joker leaned down to her eye-level, smiling sardonically, Bruce could practically feel the tension in the air.

"I," the monster said, seemingly calm, yet pressing the edge of his knife into the tip of her nose, drawing a tiny bead of blood, "Am. Not. Crazy. _NOT_. Crazy. Do you _understand_ me, doll?"

He suddenly withdrew the knife, palming it, and wiping the finite drop of blood away with his thumb; he proceeded to dab it on her trembling lower lip, while hissing in lower, angrier tones, "That's _all_ you little people ever _say._ That's _all_ you little people ever _think._ I am **not** a _lunatic._ I am **not** a _freak._"

"I-I d-didn't s-s-say you were," Giedre managed to gasp, and at her obvious lie the Joker raised an eyebrow, before brutally backhanding her. She fell along with the chair, backwards onto the floor, her head cracking on the concrete with such a horrendous _thwack! _that Bruce was surprised it did not split open, like a watermelon on the receiving end of a sledgehammer. Bruce let out a yell, which was the only thing that prevented the painted maniac from brutalizing her unconscious form. As it was, the infuriated Joker now whirled on him.

Out came the knife. "Got something to _say,_ oh-high-and-mighty Mr. _Wayne?_ Do you think you are _better_ than me, eh? With your fancy _cars_ and your full _coffers_ and the _women_ falling at your feet? Eh? _Eh?!_"

It was difficult to speak with a blade rammed between your lips, Bruce observed, while he struggled to find the right words. He was close to death, he knew--closer to death than any other time in his short life. Ironic. Somehow he had always suspected that the end of his life would come for him while he was Batman. And he'd also suspected that his end would not be pleasant; which likely would end up being true at this point. Now, the same demented man who had once told Batman _"I don't want to **kill** you! What would I do **without** you?"_ would likely be the very one to murder Bruce Wayne, and Batman along with him, all without ever knowing or even suspecting the connection between the two.

"Yes," Bruce said. The single word was out of his mouth before he even realized it. What was wrong with him tonight? Well, aside from the obviousness of being kidnapped... but his tongue seemed to have run away from his control. Granted, he hadn't always kept as good a leash on it as he should have, but who did? Alfred was fond of quoting to him the Bible, "_No man can tame the tongue,"_ but he'd never, ever understood the meaning (and warning) behind that phrase as well as he did now. First he was thanking the Joker for telling him the time in the van, and now this? What was the matter with him? Was it because he was currently existing as Bruce Wayne? Surely Batman would have handled the situation differently...

'_Great._' he thought, '_If I wasn't scheduled to be butchered before, I certainly am now.' _

But the Joker did not immediately cut into him. Instead the clown cocked his head to the side, not unlike a parrot examining a nut dropped into its cage. "_What_ did you just say?"

"I said," Bruce paused to wince as the blade pressed harder against his tongue--'_Hey!_' he mentally complained, '_I need that to answer the question!_'--but he continued to speak anyway. "I said, 'yes.' I'm better than you. But... But not because of cars, women, or money."

"_Oh?_" The Joker's voice still had that edge to it, but miraculously the pressure of the knife in Bruce's mouth lightened. Apparently the clown was actually interested in what Bruce had to say. "And _why_ would _that_ be, then?"

"Because..." Bruce trailed off, thinking hard for a way to haul himself out of the grave he was swiftly digging, but he could find none. So he simply decided to abandon all pretense. If he was going to die, he might as well be killed for what he truly believed, right? It didn't matter if he was Batman or Bruce Wayne, he'd still be damned for being himself.

"Because," he repeated, this time with more confidence that hid his internal dread, "I really _do_ think you're crazy. You hurt and kill people for no reason, and somehow you expect anyone to think anything otherwise? I... I may be a worthless hedonist, but at least I don't get my kicks at other people's expense."

Instead of being immediately slashed, Bruce was shocked to find the knife was sheathed as quickly as it had been removed. He did not get time to process this event fully before the Joker placed a hand on his shoulder, pulling him forward, so that their noses were almost touching. Those mud-brown eyes were surveying his blue ones, seemingly searching; for what, Bruce did not know, but he forced himself not to look away. The Joker may terrify him, yes--his heart rate was through the roof while the maniac was this close--but he didn't need to let the psychopath know that, especially when he was likely to face his death in the next few moments. But instead of reaching to his blade again, the Joker smiled wickedly. As if he had somehow discovered something as precious as a diamond ring in a trash can.

"_Honesty,_" the clown murmured, raising his brows in sincere surprise. "Complete _honesty..._That's a trait I really do _admire_ in you, Brucie."

**000 Author's Notes 000**

I've almost decided to write a one-shot from the Joker's perspective, to help me gain some more insight into how he acts. I think I might need it. Unfortunately for my readers, if I were to write this one-shot then you might not have a chapter (in this story) for a week or so. So I'll have to consider that... what would _you_ like, dear readers?

Thanks to my reviewers last time: Haladflire65, Miravisu, dead2self (thank you for the observation. CAPS button off limits :)), Thedarkknight17, Saela, Heir to the World, Rourinu, Dark.Morning, Vanafindiel, Padfoot n' Moony, anonymousfog, Blindfolded Angel, Almost Funny (thank you for mentioning the Joker's "flatness" in the last chapter, I really do appreciate it. ;)), Mickerayla & CountryPixie. As always, double thanks to double reviewers, and hugs to all readers. ;O


	16. Rescues

**IF THE FOUNDATIONS BE DESTROYED, WHAT CAN THE RIGHTEOUS DO?**

I don't own Batman. DC Comics does.

Please note that violence will occur in this story, and that less offensive words like "damn" will be used, but more offensive words will be "asterisked" out. Some sexuality will occur but never anything explicit. As of now this story is rated "T"--if any readers feel the rating needs to be raised, please contact me accordingly and it will be.

The reason this chapter is being posted so quickly is for ColtDancer (you may all thank her, now). I don't know what happened to you, hon, but I hope you feel better soon, and I'll pray for you. I'm just happy that this story provided you with some distraction for a little while. Hopefully things will start to look up. I know how hard it can be when life goes down the tubes. If you ever feel the need to rant, I'm all ears.

Note to readers: anytime the recorded time says "Previously," this means that the action is occurring parallel to what has previously occurred. Just FYI.

Anyone still wondering what happened to Gordon? MWAhahaha...

**Chapter Sixteen: Rescues**

_Wednesday, 9:09 P.M. (Previously)_

Temperance had just been watching the still-protesting Montana being driven away by taxi, when the first explosion had reached her ears. She was unaccustomed to such noises, having heard them before only in movies--and movies seemed to greatly under-exaggerate the effect. The sound of people screaming afterwards was what drew her back towards Barnes' house, but a rush of people fleeing outside had prevented her return inside the walls. Before she could reach the door proper, it was suddenly slammed shut: and it was slammed by, oddest of all, a man wearing a clown mask. This, more than anything, was what irked her--wasn't that quite more than _slightly_ bizarre? Americans!--and she pulled out her cell phone, dialing the authorities. Obviously this was either some kind of prank, which was unlikely, or else something quite dangerous was occurring at the party her employer was attending. Unlike all the other guests, Temperance was not one to lose her head. She was too practical.

The phone operator who answered her call took her description of the situation, especially of the man in the mask, very seriously. Although Temperance had heard of the Joker, she had not been in Gotham during either his "reign of terror" or his trial. Therefore she had always thought of him in the past tense, as someone whose day had come and gone, and who was nothing but a memory--the idea that he could have actually escaped the Arkham Madhouse was new to her. Nonetheless, she supposed it was a logical conclusion, given that the papers had been up in arms about a supposed conspiracy suppressing a breakout from Arkham, and few others would put clown masks on their minions aside from the Joker. All that Temperance focused on now was on what she should do to help her employer, who was trapped inside Councilman Barnes' house.

Before she could do much of anything, the police arrived. Those terrified guests who had made it out of the building before the place had been shut up were herded off--Temperance found herself among them. She remained close enough to hear a bespectecaled, mustached man speaking with a taller, blonde individual.

"Baldassare, I need someone I can trust commanding the perimeter... that's going to be you."

The blonde cop nodded, though he had to quickly cover up a look of abject disappointment. "Of course, Commissioner."

"Excuse me, miss, but I'm going to have to ask you to step back," the mustached man suddenly advised her, and Temperance did as she was told. One did not argue with the authorities, after all.

"Commissioner Gordon," another cop, this one an African American, called out. "What's the plan?"

"I'm not about to let _him_"--Temperance supposed that this meant the Joker, although she couldn't be sure--"hole himself up all right and proper in there, not with half of Gotham's elite and a foreign Ambassador inside. Get yourself ready, the SWAT prepared, and someone near the door to break it down. We're going in. Now."

Temperance paused only to take one last look at the situation--the police were gathering together in a swarm of blue uniforms--before heading quickly toward Master Wayne's limousine. As she crossed the the street to enter the parking lot, however, another limousine appeared out of nowhere. The rogue vehicle swerved madly through the mass of people heading for their rides; Temperance, being midway through the street, was out in the open. She was forced to violently throw herself forward, or else be run right over. It was almost as if this driver had been _aiming_ for the men and women in the street. Through a strange twist of providence, though, it was actually fortunate that the driver had done so--for, if he had followed normal traffic rules, he would not have come close enough for her to notice, through the tinted windows, that he was wearing a clown mask.

Pushing herself to her feet, and glaring frostily at a young man who dared step forward to help her (men--didn't they think that women knew all their little games?), Temperance half-walked, half-ran to Master Wayne's vehicle. She caught Toby, the limousine driver, fiddling with his wedding ring, like he usually did when he was bored. When he saw her, a smile lit up his face.

"Fireworks, eh?" he said. He had obviously mistaken the sound of the explosion for a theatrical amusement, since he couldn't see the sky from the parking lot's vantage point. "Didn't know they could do them in the city."

Temperance fairly flung herself into the passenger seat, causing Toby to raise an eyebrow. Usually people rode in the limousine's back, which was far more comfortable. Instead of explaining herself right away, the redhead buckled herself in, and checked to make sure there was a passenger airbag equipped before pointing to the rogue limousine that had attempted to make her part of the pavement. It had halted just before the group of swarming policemen.

"There's been an explosion," she informed him. Toby's eyes widened comically.

"See that vehicle?" she asked, pointing to the rogue limousine once more, and Toby nodded. "It has a...clown...driving it."

Immediately Toby was all seriousness. "Is that so?"

At her nod, his brow furrowed deeply. His wife had been in surgery, undergoing a Cesarean section, on the day that the Joker had threatened to blow up a hospital.

"What do you suggest?" he said. There was no way the two of them could alert the law enforcement standing just a hundred feet in front of them, for the police had just burst into the Councilman's home. The sounds of gunfire, screaming, and a strong voice yelling "_DOWN! EVERYBODY DOWN, NOW! ON THE FLOOR!_" could be heard through the limo's open windows.

"Ram it," Temperance ordered, knowing full well that this decision would cost her job. Employees did not wreck their employer's limousines and expect to retain their employment.

But Toby did not protest. He simply slammed down on the gas pedal. Like her, he was practical--she liked that. It was more than could be said about Master Wayne, anyway.

**000 . d . da . dar . dark . dark k . dark kn . dark kni . dark knig . dark knigh . dark knight . 000**

_Wednesday, 10:02 P.M. (Previously)_

The police officers forming the perimeter outside Barnes' home did not witness Temperance and Toby's crash; it was behind their range of vision, and the noise from what was occurring inside the building provided an excellent distraction. They were distracted even more when the second explosion occurred a few minutes later.

On the edge of the perimeter, as close as he could get to the action, Baldassare was nearly blown backward by the force of the blast. He was reminded of the time he'd been ambushed in Iraq, how the roadside bomb had nearly thrown him from the vehicle, but at the last second his buddy "Hermes" had snagged his arm. This time it was his quick reflexes that saved him from sprawling on the ground.

Immediately he surged forward, yelling for the men in the perimeter to stay put. From his vantage point he could see how the structure's supports were already beginning to bow and buckle. Streams of screaming people, sporting cuts, bruises, sprains and the occasional broken bone or bullet wound, were pouring from the front door. They were a tight bunch, all kicking, punching, and writhing to be outside first; yet only a couple dozen of them had barely made it past the threshhold when the doorway collapsed.

The screams of terror before were nothing compared to the sounds now. One could not even properly refer to these noises as "screaming," for they were far too inhuman with pain and agony to be considered such. Crushed under the weight of the doorway's debris, the tortured voices of the dead and dying faded after a few moments, but behind this carnage one could still hear the desperate people still trapped within. Ribbons of smoke were beginning to seep through the cracks of the walls, gushing out like grey and intangible rivers of blood. It seemed as if the second explosion had started a fire.

"Break the windows," Baldassare hollered, "Get everybody _out!_"

At his order the men of the perimeter broke formation, rushing forward to slam rifle butts and toss loose debris through the half-shattered glass. They remained near the openings, helping to drag out their wounded comrades and the shell-shocked partiers. Above them, the building groaned ominously. Only a matter of time, Baldassare realized, before the structure would collapse entirely.

"Commissioner Gordon!" he yelled into his radio, "Commissioner! Get the hell out of there!"

Dead, crackling silence was the radio's only response. Perhaps the Commissioner had been crushed under some debris...perhaps shot during the firefight. Either way, Baldassare didn't pause to consider his actions. In the army his nickname had been "Lemming," because he was always plunging headfirst into a suicidal situation. More than once his commander had berated him for not thinking ahead. Gordon, when he had joined the Gotham police force, had followed in that commander's tradition. But they didn't understand: Baldassare's problem wasn't that he didn't think ahead, it was that he thought _too_ much ahead. He was so busy being consumed with thoughts about life without his army buddies, and now without his boss, that he didn't bother thinking about the here-and-now. In the here-and-now he was diving into another suicidal situation--but in his mind, which was already in the future, this moment had already passed.

The glass of the shattered window sliced and cut at Baldassare's fingers as he heaved himself through the frame. Most of the party-goers had already escaped--a few were staggering about, but there were surprisingly few bodies lying still on the ground. The two forms that the policeman could see were most certainly already dead: they lay together under a fallen wooden beam from the ceiling, nearly severed in half. Baldassare moved on.

Ten steps more--smoke was clouding his vision, clogging his ears and his lungs, forcing him to crouch painfully low--and he nearly collided with two panicked party-goers. A pretty brunette was clinging to an older man, whose head possessed a rather lengthy gash, and they both were obviously consumed with hysterics.

"Back _that _way!" Baldassare shouted, jabbing a finger in the direction he had traveled from. To his surprise the brunette only clutched feebly at his arm.

"How do we get out?" she shrieked, but Baldassare didn't have time to comfort her. Judging from the deep groaning sound above their heads, neither of them had much more time left for anything. He shook her off.

"_That_ way, lady, get a hold on yourself! And get going!"

Onward he moved, deeper into the smoke and flames, and left them to their own devices. He'd told them the way out--he didn't have time to hold their hands.

To his left, a portion of the ceiling collapsed. Baldassare cursed. It would only take a few more similar collapses, and the entire building would be brought down, like a stack of dominoes. Or cards...

Unlike Bruce Wayne, John Baldassare _did_believe in destiny. Some could say that this contributed to his recklessness--after all, if his life was predetermined, nothing he could do or say would stop him from dying when his time came, but the reverse was also true: nothing could claim his life before the date of his fated death. Therefore, when he stumbled over the commissioner's prone form, Baldassare did not even think of attributing the odd meeting to chance--what were the odds that he'd randomly meet up with Gordon's motionless body in the middle of this large building? Instead of pondering these things, he simply accepted that providence dictated he should rescue the commissioner; he knelt at Gordon's side, frantically feeling for a pulse. There was one, but it was weak--and fading fast.

"Don't worry, sir," he wheezed, the smoke making his voice sound rough and low, "I'm going to get you out of here."

If Gordon was conscious enough to hear the policeman, he gave no sign. Baldassare tried to lift the limp form into his arms, but it was like trying to lift a heavy sack of potatoes. More terrible sounds of crashes and collapses reached the blonde man's ears. Though he might believe in destiny, Baldassare also knew that one could not simply sit back and let fate do everything for you. He had to find a way out, and quickly.

"I'm _not _going to leave you," he told Gordon's body, as much to assure himself as his unconscious boss. Once again he strained, managing to haul the limp form up, and kneeling on one knee braced his shoulder under the motionless commissioner. How out of shape was he? He worked out every day... his head felt hot and dizzy, as if he'd been hanging upside down for a few long minutes. The smoke, he realized. Already he was being asphyxiated.

"**COME ON!**" he roared, at who he didn't know--perhaps himself, perhaps God, perhaps to the world in general. Suddenly he was on his feet, staggering along, the commissioner drapped over his shoulders like an ox yoke. Above him the ceiling buckled. He didn't notice--nothing in the world was real to him any longer, aside from the weight on his back and his own two feet, which he was laboriously moving forward, step by step.

The next few moments, no matter how hard he tried later on, Baldassare could not remember in their entirety. It was like being in a warzone again. People were still screaming, smoke was billowing everywhere, a few gunshots echoed horribly in his ears (he heard later on that several of the Joker's clowns had made it outside, only to begin shooting and to be shot in turn), and the load on his back--his whole being, actually--seemed all at once to become light as a feather. Around him the world moved in slow motion, as he ran, stumbled, and cursed his way through the flames. Abruptly, he realized he was standing outside, a frantic army medic--no, a Gotham _nurse_, from a nearby ambulance--attempting to get him to lower Commissioner Gordon's body onto a gurney. He was clinging so tightly to his boss that this was nearly impossible without his permission. Reluctantly, he relinquished his hold, gently laying the limp form down. Baldassare grimaced, now noticing that the shoulders of his blue uniform were stained a permanent black from Gordon's blood--but he was distracted from this thought when the commissioner's eyes twitched involuntarily under his closed eyelids. Gordon was alive, he realized. He'd done it.

"You owe me a raise," he told the unconscious man, as the nurse wheeled the gurney away. "A big one."

However, Baldassare didn't watch the building behind him collapse. He was distracted when his blue eyes fell upon a peculiar sight: in the parking lot across the street, two expensive black limousines were smashed together so firmly that it was difficult to tell where one ended and the other began. Nobody else seemed to be bothering over the vehicles, so he dragged his now exhausted feet forward. Hopefully the drivers inside were all right.

To his surprise (and somewhat relief), one of the limousine's passenger doors, perhaps the only door that had not been damaged beyond use, was flung open. A young redhead sporting a sharp cut above her eyebrow, who Baldassare thought was actually quite pretty nonetheless, practically fell out of the vehicle. She was obviously stunned, for she crawled with difficulty over to the sidewalk, where she stiffly rolled over to sit on her rear. As if in a daze, she pawed absentmindedly on the stream of blood trickling down her cheek.

"Are you all right, miss?" Baldassare asked, although he stopped several paces short from her arm's reach. For some reason he was inexplicably cautious, as if he knew she was somehow fearsome, not at all to be triffled with. Instead of snarling like he expected her to, however, she only brushed a crimson strand of hair away from her freckled face, and she glared angrily at the other limousine.

"We're fine, sir," she said. "Question is, is _he_ all right?"

Only then did Baldassare notice that the occupant of the other limousine had his face leaning against the steering wheel, although the horn was not sounding so it must have been broken. If the redhead hadn't called attention to him, Baldassare doubted he would have noticed that this fellow was wearing a clown mask. Reaching forwards, he lifted the man's head, and discovered that while the driver was unconscious, he was still breathing.

"Well," the policeman said, "This is a welcome surprise."

**000 Author's Notes 000**

Yes, I know. Two original characters--sue me. But Gordon was out of it, Bruce is currently kidnapped, and Alfred, Garcia, and Lucius are (fortunately for them) at their respective houses. I also thought that it would be nice to show what happened after Bruce left, and why the Joker had originally been heading for the front door, rather than the hole he'd blown through the back wall. Not to mention that the outcomes are important later on. Plus, the character of Baldassare is based off this guy I know, so I had to do something with him. :)

Not to scare you all, but I was seriously thinking of killing off Gordon. Fortunately for him my love of his character (he's also like another guy I know, so much so that it's scary--they even look sort of the same o.0), the reviewers' responses, and the knowledge that it's still probably too early to kill characters off all combined to save him. Gordon fans rejoice! He has survived to maybe die another day...

Once again thanks to all reviewers: Haladflire65, Miravisu, Calathiel of Mirkwood, Vanafindiel, fluffyfg, dead2self, ColtDancer, Padfoot n' Moony, Serenaturner, Thedarkknight17, CrimsonTide, Mickerayla, & Almost Funny. Wow, I seem to be getting a lot of new people. But, still, it's the repeat reviewers who get hugs. ;D

Kudos to all readers, and to everyone who added this story to one or the other of those many "lists." This is all very encouraging to me.


	17. Loosed

**IF THE FOUNDATIONS BE DESTROYED, WHAT CAN THE RIGHTEOUS DO?**

I don't own Batman. DC Comics does.

Please note that violence will occur in this story, and that less offensive words like "damn" will be used, but more offensive words will be "asterisked" out. Some sexuality will occur but never anything explicit. As of now this story is rated "T"--if any readers feel the rating needs to be raised, please contact me accordingly and it will be.

To my devoted readers:

Don't worry, people, the Joker DOES have a _plan_ and it's a biggie. He might be sidetracked from time to time, but everything he does is eventually aimed at his plot's completion. Before, the worst he could do was blow up a hospital, a D.A. and his girlfriend, and two cruise ships full of people. This time, he has his sights set... a little bigger. It's up to y'all to figure it out on your own: what is part of his nefarious scheme, what isn't, and what exactly _is_ the scheme itself? Everything you need to figure it out, I've put (or will put) into the story. Don't take nothing for granted, now. Pay attention. Maybe you'll get it before I reveal my hand, or not. Mwahahahahaaa...

However, at the same time, we're gonna have fun while we get there. If anyone has any ideas for scenes or events that you want to happen, do tell me--there are some parts of my story that could be well served if I were to tweak them. Sometimes I need an imagination booster, too, so ideas are always helpful. Just FYI to anyone who wants to add something to the story: I'm all ears. After all, this story is written for its readers!

**Chapter Seventeen: Loosed**

_Thursday, 12:23 A.M._

Together Bruce and the unconscious Giedre had been unhooked from their chairs and flung through one of the three doors that lined the walls of the underground storeroom: this particular area had probably once been a large closet, but it had been shoddily remodeled as a bedroom, containing a dresser and a single queen-sized bed. The Joker's taunt of _"Don't get _too_ loud and naughty, now, or I might come to _see_ what the fuss is about!"_ was the last human voice Bruce heard for the next few hours. Mocking laughter from the clown echoed outside the room's door, growing fainter as he walked further away.

Bruce spent a long while wondering how he had managed to survive. Why wasn't he dead yet? He had been so certain that the Joker would have cut him up for being so... well, as the clown had put it, "_honest._" If he was going to be even more honest, he was beginning to doubt his own sanity--what could have possibly possessed him to talk that way to the Joker, of all people?

Whatever had spurred him to speak his mind, however, must have known what it was doing. Bruce had not been harmed. Yet.

There had been something in the Joker's eyes, though. Something frightening. The billionaire could not apply a label to the emotion. Curiosity? Much too tame a word. Fascination? Maybe... whatever it was, it was some sort of dark inquisitiveness, and Bruce did not like seeing that at all--much less having it directed at him. He, more than most people, had something to lose.

Well... perhaps not, he amended. His life was really not worth more than anyone else's, and it was arrogant to think as if it did. Nonetheless, his life--_anyone's_ life--was far too precious a thing to have at the whim of a madman. Especially the madman who had once confessed that he didn't want to kill Batman, but who had never made any such promise about Bruce Wayne.

Before he could stop it, a sudden thought occurred to the billionaire: what if it was best to reveal his other identity? As Bruce Wayne, he was vunerable to the Joker's whims--as Batman, his life was secure. He weighed this idea for a few minutes. Inevitably, though, good sense won out. Bruce tossed the thought away, shuddering that he had even considered it. Granted, the Joker had promised not to kill Batman, but who knew if he would keep his word? And even if the clown did, what was to stop him from doing something else? Something worse? While Bruce had spent some years living among criminals, he was not naive enough to suppose that he knew even half of all the depravities outlaws could work upon their fellow men. The minds of the wicked were inventive. And the Joker, from what Bruce knew of him, possessed an unusually active imagination. The vigilante did not want to discover firsthand what that imagination could do when Batman himself was helpless in the monster's clutches...

And why should he assume that the Joker would believe his confession in the first place? Perhaps the clown would--perhaps he wouldn't; he might laugh, merely take it as a joke... or he might snarl, and decide to use his knife. Either of these options, and others, were feasible to Bruce. It was impossible to tell how the maniac would react to the news of who his prisoner truly was. There were too many variables.

Bruce made a decision then, in the first night of his captivity. No matter what--regardless of the danger to life, limb, or sanity--he would not reveal his other half. Not now, not ever. Rachel had died because the Joker had discovered their connection. Bruce would never risk anyone else he knew: his staff, Cook Kwan, Toby, Marishka, even Temperance--and, most of all, he would protect Alfred. If this meant his life was forfeit, he could only regret the string of decisions that had led him to this point.

Thinking of his butler brought a deep-seated ache to Bruce's heart. Never had he desired to see his old mentor so much. He felt all the worse because he knew he was being selfish: Alfred was safe, cozy at the manor, and it was wrong of him to wish his old friend into this dangerous situation. Even if Alfred's presence would have made his captivity far more bearable at the moment. Bruce silently told himself to think of something else, to forget about his butler, because he knew that if he didn't he would come close to breaking down--he wouldn't cry, of course, for he'd stopped doing that completely quite soon after his parents' deaths, but this didn't mean he wouldn't descend into some form of numb depression. Better to keep his mind alert.

Instead of thinking about Alfred, the billionaire decided to focus on someone who _was_ currently with him, in danger, and he busied himself in maneuvering over to Ambassador Giedre. The captives had fallen randomly on the bedsheets, their hands still cuffed behind their backs, so he couldn't do much for her. Still, he wanted to have a look at the unconscious woman's head. From what he was able to see there was a large knot forming. Otherwise, there was no injury--no blood, at least. The tip of her nose bore a tiny scab from the Joker's knife point. It looked oddly enough like a blackhead. When this idea came to him, Bruce struggled not to laugh. Yes--something was indeed very wrong with him, he decided. Who would laugh at a time like this?

His mind answered that question for him: _'The Joker.'_

Remembering the clown again only made him shudder. Giedre had said that her father's murderer was her personal "nightmare." Well, Bruce had his own nightmare, and it wasn't a political assassin executed long ago. Instead it was the monster who was probably lurking outside, waiting for Bruce to fall asleep, so it could murder them both. Of course, this was a rather illogical thought, for if the Joker had simply intended to kill them he would have done so already... but with _him_ one could never truly say for sure. Bruce figured that, in issues concerning the Joker, he had the right to be paranoid.

Sometime around what Bruce guessed was three in the morning--he could only guess, as his wristwatch was still bound behind him--Giedre regained consciousness. She was immensely groggy and Bruce feared that permanent damage might have occurred, but gradually her head seemed to clear. Little was said between them. Whether this was because they had nothing to say, or because they were afraid their captor could somehow overhear, the billionaire did not know. They did, however, speak volumes without words: they huddled together, not because the room was altogether cold, but because there was something to be said about camaraderie at a time like this.

Around four or five o'clock exhaustion pressed down on them, and Bruce vaguely noticed that Giedre was asleep. Was this good or bad, considering that she might have a concussion? He didn't know. Blearily, he tried to blink back the heaviness in his own eyes... he must have failed, for his head nodded and he fell into dreamless darkness, though he wasn't aware enough to even realize this.

**000 . d . da . dar . dark . dark k . dark kn . dark kni . dark knig . dark knigh . dark knight . 000**

_Thursday, 10:02 A.M._

_Bruce thought he recognized an emotion in the stranger's brown eyes. Curiosity. The same feeling that had caused the boy to look out the garden door in the first place. For a moment the two males regarded one another, saying nothing, but each observing the other as if there were nothing else of interest in the whole wide world._

_"Hey, Rachel," Bruce said at last. "There's somebody out here..."_

The next thing Bruce understood was that suddenly a bright light had somehow burst into his vision, stinging and clawing at his eyes horribly. He groaned, as he always did when awoken, and prayed it was not Temperance who was flinging back the blinds.

"Not _now_ Alfred..." he mumbled. "Ten more minutes..."

"'Alfred'?" Came a bemused response. "Who's _that?_"

_Definitely_ not Temperance.

Bruce was jolted into full awareness. The last vestiges of whatever he had been dreaming, including Rachel's young face, were lost to him immediately. His look of shock must have been amusing, for the Joker let out a low chuckle. When the billionaire squinted he could see the outline of the clown in the doorway. It took his eyes a few moments to adjust, during which the monster waited with surprising patience. At last, however, the maniac drawled,

"Yeah, kiddo, if _I_ were dreaming next to... that woman... I wouldn't want to get up, either. But that's too bad. You'll... _miss breakfast_."

Suddenly realizing how close he was to Rachel--_no,_ to the _Ambassador_--Bruce shot to his feet immediately. It was as if he had been burned--he even fought to keep his face from turning a light pink shade. What helped him the most in this endeavor was that his sudden motion seemed to make him sick: he swayed, feeling lightheaded, and managed to collapse backwards onto the bed instead of forwards into the Joker himself. Giedre awoke with a slight grunt as his right elbow glanced against her skull. At once the billionaire's injury began throbbing with such intensity that it made him want to squirm in discomfort. There was no pain, though--only a dull ache that reminded him of the Joker's terrific grip yesterday night, and that certainly promised he would be in agony later, once the initial stiffness and shock wore off. He knew what he could look forward to when his mind cleared once more.

"Tsk, _tsk, _Brucie," the Joker chided, sounding strangely pleased at his prisoner's clumsiness, "What'd I _tell_ ya? Breakfast is the thing! Get _something_ in that stomach, and then face the day, _eh?_"

Giedre, awake now and still on the bed, said nothing as the Joker stepped forward and hauled Bruce upright--but the billionaire had the sneaking suspicion that the clown had winked at her. What this meant, he had no idea. Certainly it wasn't something good. For a moment he considered doing something brash--perhaps giving the lunatic's skull a headbutt?--in order to take the monster's thoughts off the ambassador. Better for the maniac to focus on him than on her. Still, the Joker did nothing unseemly. He simply hauled Giedre up as well, and ushered them both wordlessly from the room with vague, fluttering "shoo" motions of his gloved hands. Bruce could not help feeling awkward at how bizarre the clown's behavior was.

"You know, lady," the Joker said, once they were back in the large storeroom, "Those cuffs look _uncomfortable._ Mind if I..."

He didn't finish his question--nor did he wait for her to answer it, whatever it was. Instead the monster simply stepped behind her, undoing the handcuffs with a quick jerk. How he accomplished this, Bruce wasn't entirely sure--the billionaire couldn't see anything in those gloved hands; and, come to think of it, he hadn't seen the Joker use any keys while adjusting the handcuffs yesterday, either. Was the clown somehow picking the locks? He could only theorize.

For a few seconds, Giedre stood still, a baffled look on her face, as if she couldn't quite believe she was free. When she finally lifted her hands to cautiously rub her wrists, the Joker seized her arm. Bruce would have bolted forward, handcuffs or no handcuffs, but the clown was too quick. He pressed the back of the shocked Ambassador's hand to his red, scarred lips, in a mocking imitation of a gentlemanly kiss. A smirk creased his cheeks when the frozen woman didn't even try to pull away. But, although the clown's brown eyes were originally on Giedre, as he dropped her hand the mud-colored orbs flickered briefly to Bruce's face. The billionaire was left wondering--had the Joker done this because he had an interest in Giedre's reaction, or in Bruce's? Whichever it was, the clown's attention was immediately on Giedre once more.

"_Well, _then," he drolled, "Go on, my dear, nobody's going to _hurt_ a pretty thing like you."

He turned to the group of milling men, who were on the far side of the room. Cupping his hands, the clown hollered, "RIGHT?"

It was obvious that the goons could not know what the Joker was speaking about, for they stood at a distance. But they must have known better than to be silent, for they responded with a chorus of agreeable "_yeah_"s, accompanied by much head-bobbing. One of their number, a pale, thin man, who was almost whiplike with sinewy grace, parted from the main group and headed in the clown's direction. Bruce was consumed with watching him--this fellow movement's were almost hypnotic, in a strange sort of way.

Yet Batman's skills of observation were still present in Bruce Wayne. From the corner of his eye, Bruce saw that the Joker's left hand had abruptly begun to shake, in what appeared to be entirely involuntary tremors. In addition to this, it seemed to go suddenly rigid--claw like, almost, and the clown immediately clutched at it with his other hand, rubbing it soothingly. There was a displeased grimace on his painted lips. Bruce was surprised to see how intense the emotion was. Quite quickly, the tremors stopped.

At that point one could almost _feel _the relief the Joker's face displayed. The billionaire was struck by how human the Joker's expression was. It was almost like he was a normal, rational human being, if only for that one moment. As soon as it had come, however, the expression faded, and was replaced by a guarded look. When the whiplike goon finally reached them, the Joker demanded,

"Is Auguste back? Or _not?_"

"He's still out," said the goon, in a voice so oily and soft that Bruce suddenly felt sick. His stomach being empty might also have had something to do with that sensation, though.

Something a lot like displeasure flashed through those brown eyes. "_Well,_ then."

Now ignoring his minion, the Joker suddenly turned to Bruce. His face broke into a smile as he stepped behind the captive, out of the billionaire's line of sight, which only served to increase the prisoner's heart rate. Who knew what the clown would do? But Bruce only felt a quick jerk on his wrists, an action that his throbbing elbow protested vehemently, and then his hands were free. The Joker moved to face him once more, stepping back to just within arm's reach.

"Be a good boy, now, like you were last night," admonished the clown, wagging a finger at him reprovingly. "No... _funny_ stuff, eh?"

It felt odd to have the cuffs removed. Cautiously, Bruce tested his elbow, unsure if it would allow him to bend his arm. When it did, he nearly sighed with relief. While behind his back, his elbow had felt like it was the size of a soccer ball--but it obviously could not be _that_swollen. On the downside, it certainly was stiff, and it had indeed swelled enough that Bruce could feel some slight friction with the cloth of his tux's sleeve. Hopefully the clown wouldn't notice this. Hesitantly, Bruce glanced up from rubbing his wrists, trying to gage the reaction of the monster in front of him. He was surprised to find those brown eyes focused on him, as well, as if they were attempting to discern something important from Bruce's face.

Suddenly Bruce became aware of a certain... excitement... in the air. A sense of anticipation. But of what? The Joker was waiting for _something..._

_'What's he up to **now?**'_ Bruce thought, almost frantically, though fortunately his face didn't betray much of his mental whirlwind. _'What does he expect me to do? Run? I won't get far...'_

Lazily, the brown eyes traveled down to Bruce's hands--when the billionaire looked down as well, he realized he'd been unconsciously clenching them into tight fists. This made sense. He was not exactly calm and collected at the moment. Now that he had his fists free, though, he felt the sudden desire to use them--and the object of his ire was standing within arm's reach. Granted, that would probably be suicidal. Yet the thought of striking the Joker did occur to him, and it was so appealing that for a second he actually considered it a viable option.

Was that it?

_'Is he waiting for me to _hit_ him?'_ Bruce wondered. Why? Billionaire Bruce Wayne was a pansy, who never punched anyone. Yet what other reason could there be for this anticipation?

"_Well?_" the Joker's voice suddenly prodded, and Bruce froze. Even though the clown's voice had been lighthearted, it had a slight lilt to it that promised danger. In a matter of minutes Bruce's situation had become extremely perilous, and he had the inexplicable urge to spill everything; he wanted nothing less than to explain his greatest secret to the maniac and hope for mercy. Almost immediately he quashed this desire. No matter how he wished for benevolence, the monster before him was the one man who would never show kindness to anybody, even to Batman. The Joker could _never_ know Batman's true identity...

But what if the clown already knew? What if he had somehow made the connection? He was just being paranoid, Bruce told himself, for there was logically no way that the Joker could have discovered the link between Bruce Wayne and Batman so quickly, if he were ever to discover it at all. How could a mere few hours of interaction reveal the vigilante beneath the playboy? Bruce knew he must never underestimate a madman--though one tended to think of the insane as idiots, they could be just as intelligent as normal men, if not more so: Crane, after all, had been renowned by the scientific community before his unfortunate descent into insanity. All the same, the idea that Bruce's occasional slip-ups from his playboy persona could have somehow revealed Batman's secret was ultimately ludicrous.

But then why this fascination? What had Bruce done to cause this?

He should say something, the billionaire realized. If he was going to keep his disguise, let alone his life, he had better do something to placate the monster before him. So, making a conscious effort to unclench his fingers, he said softly,

"Uh... thanks."

Well, he'd said thank-you before to the clown, hadn't he? It wouldn't kill him to do it again. Hopefully this wouldn't somehow make the maniac angry...

Fortunately for Bruce, the Joker only passively watched the billionaire's fists unclench, before his red-rimmed mouth smiled broadly. It was as if he had somehow scored a winning goal. Or--worse, Bruce thought--as if he had suddenly stumbled upon a new and exciting game to play.

"_Interesting,_" the clown murmured quietly, to himself, although Bruce's sharp ears still picked up the comment. The maniac shrugged, glancing over at the whiplike goon, who only stared out at Bruce with hooded eyes.

Then the Joker leaned in to whisper, in a low voice that only Bruce could hear.

"I'm turnin' ya _loose,_ Brucie," he winked, conspiratorially, though to Bruce his action was far more menacing than endearing. "You'd do best to _remember_ who's doin' that. Do I _look_ like I _fool around_ to you?"

The billionaire was unsure how to answer this question--the man in front of him was called "the Joker," after all--but fortunately for him it seemed to be rhetorical, for the monster licked his lips, suddenly glancing cautiously about with his shadow-rimmed eyes, as if he expected eavesdroppers. When he was assured they were being purposefully ignored by everyone present, he continued:

"I figure you can _behave_ yourself? Who knows? I might not be there to get you and the lady out of a _pickle._ Could you handle... surprises?"

At this point the clown rolled his brown eyes over to the congregating goons on the far side of the room, who, Bruce just then noticed, were still giving Giedre occasional leering looks. Immediately Bruce's blood went cold. Would they try something? The ambassador appeared to be slipping into shock once more--Bruce didn't even know if she would scream, much less resist, should anyone attempt anything. He could not let such a thing happen.

But why would the Joker care? It was highly doubtful that the clown was human enough to empathize with anyone, much less his prisoners. Yet... if the Joker was asking _him,_ of all people, to protect her, didn't it follow that the clown at least suspected that Bruce Wayne actually had the ability to stop an assailant? If so... if Bruce's cover was that far blown... what else did the monster suspect? Bruce's uneasiness doubled, but not knowing what else to do, he said nothing. The Joker seemed disappointed at his silence. Shaking his painted head as if dealing with a disobedient child, the clown proceeded to chide:

"Well, that's _that_ though. Neither _here_ nor _there._ Just be sure to keep an eye out. And don't wander off too _far_ now. You'll be _good,_ won't you?"

Again, Bruce did not respond, but this time the Joker waited longer for an answer. Realizing that the clown would not accept his silence this time, at last the billionaire said quietly, "Of course."

Once more the grin expanded over the clown's scarred cheeks. He turned to the whiplike goon.

"_Eh,_Slink! He think's he'll behave today. We'll _see_ won't we?" Once more his attention focused on his prisoner. "Excellent, Brucie, just _peachy._ Just for that, you can go anywhere you want. I just don't recommend leaving the, _uh..._ main rooms. Who know what's _prowling_ out there in the darkness? Wouldn't want Gotham's Prince to be hurt, would we? Can I truly trust you to _stick around?_"

Could he, indeed? Bruce chanced a look at Giedre. She did not seem up to much activity; rather, she was quiet and dazed again, as if she had descended once more into shock. Although Rachel did have the tendency to zone out at times, Bruce couldn't see his childhood friend shutting down so completely, so Giedre's expression therefore seemed oddly out of place to him. Was it possible, however, that she could snap out of it? Did she have the wits to accompany him on a run for the surface? As he nodded once more to the Joker, playing his part of the stupidly obedient trust fund baby, his mind was instead focused on quite a different set of thoughts.

He was so consumed with ideas that, as the Joker turned to stalk away, he didn't catch the sly smile spreading across those scarred red lips.

**000 Author's Notes 000**

The reviewer "Mickerayla" wanted to know why the Joker was originally headed toward the front instead of toward the back in the kidnapping scene. I guess I didn't explain that well. So I'll work it into the next chapter, and if you still don't get it (and please DO tell me if you don't!), I'll just explain in an Author's Note.

Thanks to reviewers! vballmania23, An?ima, fluffyfg, Mickerayla, Ems, ColtDancer, Lady Padfoot21 (four times :O), Padfoot n' Moony, Rosealinde, Miravisu, Jeanette Lockhart, Haladflire65, Vanafindiel, Almost Funny, Csillan.Rose, & CountryPixie. Also thanks to everyone who read and who added this story to any "lists."

WOW! 160 reviews? That evens out to 10 per chapter. (Does a little dance. XD) Thank you, guys!

**NOTE TO READERS:**my life is becoming soooo hectic (it's that time of the year again...), so unfortunately you'll have to expect longer periods between updates. That's why this has taken so long to be posted. But even though on crunch times it might take a while, I really don't intend to abandon this. Having feedback and forcing myself to write is good practice for aspiring novelists, and therefore this story is actually helpful to me personally. You'll all just have to be more patient, unfortunately. ;)


	18. Slink

**IF THE FOUNDATIONS BE DESTROYED, WHAT CAN THE RIGHTEOUS DO?**

I don't own Batman. DC Comics does.

Please note that violence will occur in this story, and that less offensive words like "damn" will be used, but more offensive words will be "asterisked" out. Some sexuality will occur but never anything explicit. As of now this story is rated "T"—if any readers feel the rating needs to be raised, please contact me accordingly and it will be.

Note to readers: I'll take this moment to remind everyone about the time and date listed at the beginning of each section of the story. Just remember that while it's been over a week to us "real people," for the characters barely any time at all has passed since the Joker appeared in public. If Bruce's kidnapping began just slightly after 9:30 P.M. on Wednesday, he's really only been in captivity for the past 13 or so hours. That's barely _half a day!_ And he's spent some of those hours sleeping (I'm sure if he were real he'd be very grateful to me for that ;D). So while everything unfortunately seems rather long for us, to the characters everything that's happened is an extremely recent development.

The reviewer "Almost Funny" had a question about the "shakes" that the Joker has been experiencing… sorry to say I can't give it away, but I'm _so_ glad you noticed. C:

Another reviewer, "vballmania23", asked about Stockholm Syndrome... It's way too early for anything like that yet, if it ever even occurs (again...you'll have to wait, see, and judge for yourselves). But, if this continues long enough, you'll get to read more of Bruce's reactions... question is, how long will this continue? ;)

**Chapter Eighteen: Slink**

_Thursday, 10:34 A.M._

After the Joker had stalked off, Bruce was left standing awkwardly beside Giedre. The billionaire felt overly self-conscious: not only had he just been warned of the impending attempt to rape his companion, and been appointed her unofficial "guardian," he had also been freed of his bonds by none other than the Joker, who possibly—no, make that _probably_—had a suspicion that "Billionaire Bruce Wayne" was somehow more than he seemed. How deeply this suspicion was held, and how far it extended, Bruce did not know. Yet even now, when the Joker's back was turned, he had the feeling that he was being observed closely. Just like an ant under a magnifying glass. And the demented child holding that glass was busy wondering if he should fry the tiny bug underneath or not.

The Joker would be watching him. Waiting for him to reveal something. Hoping to catch a glimpse of his hand. Bruce had played poker, and done fairly well at it, but this was more than a simple game of appearances. His best poker face could not hide the truth if his hand was forced into being revealed, and the Joker had done an extremely good job of setting up such an unavoidable scenario.

'_That rotten son of a...'_ Bruce thought, and he wanted ever so much to speak his thoughts aloud. The demented clown certainly knew what he was doing. Nobody else in the room would care if Giedre were assaulted. Only Bruce. So, should she be attacked, there was only one person who would be in a position to save her...

'_All he has to do is sit back and wait,'_ mused the billionaire, somewhat bitterly. It was the perfect trap. Those goons the Joker had hired were not kind men: true thugs never were. Eventually one of them would try something. And, when he did, Bruce would need to fight him off, whether his good arm was injured or not. One couldn't _talk_ the stupid or the deranged out of doing what they wanted—one simply had to enforce one's own rules. Unfortunately, to do so Bruce would need to shatter his cover even further...

'_I am such an idiot.'_

The thought came to him, suddenly. Unbidden. And although his immediate tendency was to mentally agree, the logical part of his mind held him back. After all, did that thought even make sense? Should he truly blame himself? What could he have done differently? Perhaps at Barnes' party he could have rescued the ambassador—or perhaps attempting such a stunt would have gotten him quickly killed. There was no way to prove a hypothetical. Besides, it was practically a divine miracle that he was still alive, anyway... he didn't have time to berate himself. Not now. He could blame himself later, if he so desired. Right now he had three tasks to focus on.

First, protect the ambassador.

Second, do so while playing up the "worthless rich jerk" shtick.

Third, FIND A WAY OUT OF THIS HELLHOLE.

Perhaps, Bruce reflected, number three ought to be first on the list...

"So," came an oily voice. "_Bruce Wayne._"

A grimace crossed the billionaire's face when he saw the lips of the whip-like goon form his name. People—aside from Montana, naturally—had always spoken the name of "Wayne" with a sort of bizarre reverence, as if they somehow were in the presence of the Pope or something. The pope of money, maybe. Bruce had never truly considered himself to be an idol of the dollar-worshipping masses, mostly because during his childhood his father had pressed home that money did not make one special, and also because a lot of his youth was spent either shut up with Alfred or running around with crooks. Upon returning home and taking up a life of luxury—which he led only during the daylight hours, of course—the part of him that was Batman had always served as a hindrance to his natural human tendency to devolve into a hedonist. Without Batman's drive, he had always supposed, he would truly _be_ as worthless as Montana's accusations, whether he devoted at least a small sum of his money to charities or not.

But whereas most people's awestruck pronunciation of Bruce's name was slightly annoying at times, he had become used to it, and he barely noticed it anymore. Yet this... this goon's rendition of his name, in the same sort of manner, was unnerving. It was creepy, the way his thin lips flicked the sounds out, the fleshy red tongue curling around the syllables. Almost perverse, in a strange sort of way.

If this goon knew the effect he was projecting, however, he gave no sign. His silvery eyes simply skirted over Bruce's form, as if sizing him up. Bruce must have seemed lacking, for a sneer crossed the minion's face. He jerked his head at the Ambassador.

"What's wrong with her?"

The billionaire had a slight bit of trouble understanding the words; they were so soft. They were like vapor released into the air—dissipating before one had the chance to truly see what form they took.

Indeed, if he were to label this goon with a nickname, it would have been "Vapor." Everything about the man was pasty, ghostly white, including his clothes. No, not _white_—it was more like a tint of gray. Even the man's skin had an unhealthy, drab color to it, although not to the point where he could be considered an albino. He was bald, hairless even on his arms, and his eyes were half-closed in a hooded look, as if he was perpetually ready to collapse into sleep. Underneath the drooping lids the silvery orbs were watery, dull, and unfocused, although Bruce had the impression that this was only an illusion covering the sharp mind within. He tried not to shudder when the orbs focused back on him. They were like the eyes of a dying man.

"She's…" Bruce struggled for the right words, "Just… scared."

Before he knew what he was saying, he continued, "You'd be, too."

'Great going,' was his immediate thought. 'I can't believe how reckless I'm being… practically begging for him to kill me. What's wrong with me? Why can't I just keep my mouth shut?'

The Joker's reappearance into his life must have been more unsettling than even he realized. He was completely on edge; his control over his tongue was beginning to suffer. It was only a matter of time before this tendency caused him some serious trouble, though, so he decided he had better learn to rein himself in—and fast.

But the goon did not at all look perturbed by Bruce's flippant statement. He just continued to stare, blankly, reminding Bruce even more of a zombie. When he answered, Bruce caught sight of his teeth—some of which were missing, and the remainder of which were such a sickening yellow that they put the Joker's mouthful of unbrushed chompers to shame. Their canary gold hue seemed to be the only color on his person.

"She's not a redhead."

It was such a nonsensical statement that Bruce almost did a double take. "Excuse me?"

The watery eyes might have rolled, but the eyelids were too hooded for the billionaire to know for certain. Whoever this gray man was, he didn't like repeating himself.

"She has black hair," he said.

"And…that's…bad?" Bruce supplied. The whip-like goon snorted.

"Depends on your perspective," he commented, idly, "I personally think it's a great tragedy."

If that was the case, Bruce decided, he should probably be happy that Giedre's hair was as dark as his own.

"Hey, Slink, you're not creepin' him out with tall tales, aren't'cha?" came the voice of another goon, this one a sandy-haired man whose bushy eyebrows reminded Bruce of Montana Payton. Or, at least, twin fuzzy caterpillars. Having followed in the gray man's wake, he was now standing by Bruce's side. He winked at Giedre.

"Hey, babe… don't worry. Nobody's gonna touch ya. The Joker… well, he'd do to us what he did to poor ol' Rummy last night. Can't say the guy didn't 'ave it comin', though. Losin' an _entire_ truckload to the cops… boss was jus' _waiting_ for an excuse to take him out—"

"If you're quite _finished_, Applejack," Slink said, suddenly, and while his voice was just as soft there was a hint of malice in it.

"Yeah, yeah…" laughed the sand-haired man, "Jus' showin' her that it's not _all_ bad 'round here…"

He was rudely interrupted when the gray man—"Slink" was his name, or at least his title, Bruce supposed—pointed in the direction of the lone rickety card table, his fingernails revealed to be cracked, grimy, and also slightly yellowish. They were the sort of wretched hands that no amount of manicures could cure. It didn't help that his thumb was obviously missing, only a stubby stump remaining in the place it should have been.

Bruce followed the general direction of the gesture, his eyes alighting on what appeared to be a bowl and several sets of plates.

"Breakfast," was all Slink stated. He seemed to be a man of few words. For which, given his unpleasant voice, Bruce took as proof for God being merciful.

As Slink and the sand-haired goon—who, for some reason, was given the designation "Applejack"—herded Bruce and Giedre toward the table, the billionaire found himself surprised that they were being fed at all. Of course, the Joker had claimed that Bruce would "_miss breakfast,_" but he'd thought that phrase had been just a rhetorical tease. After all, who would expect the lunatic to feed his unwilling guests?

It was unnerving to him—a lot of things were giving him that feeling of uneasiness, lately—that the Joker would play host. Bruce liked the thought of the clown being an unfeeling monster, who only wreaked suffering and misery. That the maniac would feed his hostages was a surprise. At the moment it was, in some ways, a welcome one—Bruce was hungry, after all… yet on the other hand, surely this meant something. The Joker wasn't starving them, denying food and drink, enjoying their distress. He was nourishing them.

Keeping them alive.

For what? This was out of character for the clown. Surely the monster had a _reason_…

Bruce almost laughed. Even if the Joker did have some sort of twisted logic, it was a stretch to say that he would be able to understand it. Nevertheless, he was certain that the clown was up to something. Now, if he could only find out _what…_

The bowl on the card table contained some sort of tan-colored goop. Squinting, Bruce tried to identify it. Oatmeal? Malt o'Meal? Grits?

…Slop?

Ah, well—whatever it was, it certainly looked more appetizing than the unidentifiable sludge he'd been forced to consume in that Chinese prison. That at least was something. Never mind that he'd much prefer to be back there than right here at the moment.

He'd fared on much worse, but what about the Ambassador? When Slink seized the ladle and spooned two large dollops on separate plates, Bruce chanced a look at Giedre. She had numbly followed after him on the walk over to the card table. As she was handed her plate and spoon, she blinked, before staring down at the… slop… like it was about to bite her.

Rachel would probably have been a bit bolder, Bruce reflected. Perhaps she would have made some comment about how men should not be allowed to cook. Somehow he found it hard to imagine that his childhood friend would have shut down this completely, even in such a terrible situation as this. What had happened to the bold woman who had held his limousine's door open for him? She was gone, replaced by a timid mouse—or, rather, a turtle, withdrawn into its shell. When Giedre looked up at him, it was clear that very little of what she was seeing was registering in her mind. The ambassador was clearly not coping well with the circumstances at all. Not that he could blame her—he of all people had some idea of what she was experiencing.

As her eyes alighted on Bruce's face, however, Bruce noticed something briefly flash behind the layers of brown. Recognition. And… distaste? He couldn't be sure. It was a look that he probably would not have identified, if he had not known Rachel so well: but at that moment Giedre had the same look Rachel had once possessed when she was blaming Bruce for something.

Blaming him? For what? He must have been mistaken. The very second that he had spotted the emotion in her eyes, it was gone. Had it ever been there in the first place? Granted, this situation was stressful, but for him to imagine things was a bit drastic…

'_Get a hold of yourself,'_ Bruce thought, disgustedly. Slink handed him a plate and spoon as well, motioning for them to sit in either of two empty, rickety folding chairs. Quickly Bruce took the shabbier-looking of them, leaving Giedre the one that had a bit of torn cushioning left on the seat. Not that there was much difference between the seats, but he still cared that his guest should receive the better one. Their situation was not going to cause him to lose his head.

Unfortunately, his choice of chairs put him in the one closer to where the Joker was standing.

He tried to ignore the feeling of the clown's piercing stare. Instead he focused on his meal. It was useless trying to identify it, but who knew if it was even safe to eat? Perhaps it was poisoned or something. This seemed unlikely, but still… Bruce waited until he saw Applejack run a finger on the bowl's inside, bringing it to his mouth to lick it off. The goon did not double over and fall dead to the ground. Proof positive that the slop was safe.

Only then did he begin to eat himself. He didn't trust his right elbow to continually bend and twist with the motion of his spoon, so he held his paper plate in his right hand and worked with his left. Furthermore he propped the plate up with his knee, in order that he could avoid holding its weight, however slight. Once he tasted it, he realized that the sludge was really not all that bad—it was some kind of finely-ground oatmeal, just a little bland to the taste and heavy on the tongue. How odd.

He'd barely taken two bites when the Joker's barked laugh interrupted him. The sound caused his heart to start pounding immediately, but he forced himself to calm down. If he reacted then the monster would only be even more entertained.

A couple long-legged paces, and the clown was looming over the seated billionaire, who stubbornly refused to look up at his captor.

"_Goodness_, Brucie, you're so… _untrusting_. That hurts—it really does. What did you think? That I'd… ah, _put something_ in your breakfast? _Why_ would I do that?"

Obviously the clown had noticed his reluctance to eat first. At least he was taking it as a joke, rather than an insult.

Bruce suddenly felt hot breath against his forehead, and, without lifting his eyes from the slop, he knew that the Joker had leaned forward. The monster seemed to know how violating his personal space affected him. It unsettled him, shook his faith in his ability to keep his face straight. Well, he wouldn't show that to the maniac; he was going to act as normally as possible, for as long as he could.

"Didn't know you were _left-handed,_ Brucie," the Joker commented cheekily, as if there was something wrong with left-handedness that the billionaire just didn't comprehend. Bruce froze, but would not allow himself to be belittled.

"Yeah, well, there's a lot about me that you don't know," he challenged.

"Oh, I'm _sure,_" the Joker responded. It sounded like an offhanded insult, yet at the same time the billionaire could sense that somewhere under his chuckling the clown was being deadly serious. He truly meant what he had said.

Once again Bruce was struck by paranoia. How could the monster be so certain? Was he putting the pieces together? Just how hard was it to connect the dots between Billionaire Boy Wayne and the Batman, anyway?

'_Stop it,'_ he told himself, firmly. He was just working himself up. And, while in the presence of the Joker, this was a very bad idea.

A small smile twisted on the clown's ruby lips. "You _know_, Brucie, spoons are for _big_ boys…"

As the captive was processing what the monster had just said, the Joker abruptly reached forward and seized his left hand. Bruce jerked in his chair, surprised at this development, unsure whether the clown intended to harm him. Instead of mysteriously conjuring up a knife, however, the monster merely yanked the spoon out of the billionaire's nerveless fingers.

Holding up the utensil, the clown twirled it as expertly as he would a sharp blade.

"And," the maniac continued, "When you _grow up_, you'll be allowed to use one, won't you? _Until_ then, it's best if you use your hands, right? Don't want you to _hurt_ yourself…"

As quickly as it had been taken, the spoon was pocketed. Bruce frowned.

He knew what the Joker was doing. This was only the beginning, the first of a thousand petty torments the clown would unleash on him, hoping to push the billionaire ever further toward the brink. Hoping for a reaction. One little, tiny moment when Bruce was so angry he became careless. A single second where his mask would drop, and the playboy persona would reveal a hint of whatever was hidden underneath. Bruce could sense a small trace of anticipation in the Joker's gaze. The clown was waiting for him to burst.

It seemed as if Bruce's tongue the night before had truly let the cat out of the bag: the Joker had found a new toy, and he was intending to see just what it could do. Which of them would break first? Would the Joker eventually give up, or would Bruce explode before then? The clown was the one with all the power in this situation. All he needed to do was bide his time, wait for Giedre to be attacked, wait Bruce to snap… wait for the billionaire's inner nature to be laid bare. If only Bruce would angrily react _now_ instead of _later_…

Well, he wasn't about to give the monster that sort of sick satisfaction. Ever.

"All right," he said, his voice oddly calm. _'If you say so.'_ The strangeness of the circumstances struck him suddenly. As Batman he would normally have resisted the Joker at all costs. Batman would never have been in this situation in the first place; but if he ever were, he would have demanded the spoon back, if only to show the Joker who was boss. But while Bruce internally wanted to follow his inner vigilante—his fists were still free, after all—he knew that Bruce Wayne would have a very different reaction from the Bat Man. So he quashed his desire to strike, and simply dug at the slop with his fingers. It was mushy, sticky, and not at all pleasant, but in his mind this humiliation was better than exposing his captor to his other half.

The Joker's small smile turned into a full-fledged smirk. His laughter was mercifully short-lived, as he interrupted it with mocking praise, "Very _good_, Brucie! I _knew_ you'd see things my way… aha ha…"

One gloved hand insultingly patted the billionaire's hair. Like he was a dog, or a faithful pet... briefly Bruce's blood boiled, but he cooled it by sheer force of will. Alfred always had berated him for being too stubborn for his own good. Well, now he'd made up his mind what to do, and wasn't backing down.

Neither was the Joker, apparently.

"Let's give him a _round_, boys, for being such an… _obedient_ little fellow, _hmmn?_" the clown prodded, and as soon as the words left his mouth, all the goons burst into jeering applause. Still, Bruce did not react. Although his face felt slightly hot, he ignored the sensation and it quickly ended.

His passiveness must have genuinely surprised his captor, though, for the Joker raised an eyebrow, and peered at him even more closely. Bruce forced himself to meet the questioning brown eyes. He would not be weak. Not this time. Nevertheless, he could not deny that the urge to drop his gaze to his plate was growing increasingly stronger… he was unsure how long he could remain calm, even as the goons' clapping stopped, for the apprehension of what the monster's next move would be was weighing very heavily on his mind.

But the Joker did not press him further. Instead, the clown stared at him for a few more moments, before beginning to chuckle.

"Very _good,_ Brucie," he said, "_Very_ good. I must say, this is rather… _surprising_ of you. I'm curious… what has changed between _now_ and that wonderful ride in the van last _night?_"

The billionaire's mouth once again did all the thinking for his brain.

"You offered me such _good_ food," Bruce retorted, sarcasm coating every word.

This must have been the right thing to say, for the Joker let out an amused snort, shaking his head in what appeared to be disbelief. His hand disappeared into his pocket, but it did not reach for any weapon—instead, he flicked the spoon out, sticking it upright in the slop of Bruce's plate. The goop was just the right consistency that the utensil remained where it had been placed.

"_Careful_, Brucie," the clown said, "That's all good fun… _but_, one of these days, that tongue of yours will run you into… _trouble._"

All Bruce replied with was a nod. He could not believe it—what was running through that maniac's painted head, that he was now returning what he had taken? Was he conceding the game for the moment, or was this just another move on the chessboard?

No sooner had Bruce responded than the Joker smirked down at him, suddenly chipper and cheerful once more: he hummed a disorganized tune as he walked off, his attention turned back to his minions.

Bruce could only pray that it remained there for a good long while.

**000 Author's Note 000**

The reviewer "Lady Padfoot21" wants to know how to pronounce the name "Giedre"… ummm, it might sound crazy, but I don't actually know. It's Lithuanian, if that helps, and it comes from "Giedrius," which means "serene." I just thought the meaning was pretty… plus, when she goes into shock she ends up being… um, _serene_. Yep. X)

Thanks to all reviewers: Haladflire65, Dark.Morning (thanks for your opine), RedNex, fluffyfg (thanks for your patience), Thedarkknight17, CountryPixie (we'll see Alfred later...), Almost Funny, Vanafindiel (I love your brainstorming theories ;D), Heir to the World (twice :O), Miravisu, Mickerayla (you are, like, high or something... :D), Csillan.Rose, vballmania23, Padfoot n' Moony, Gemstone, ColtDancer (Bruce isn't naive, but this is a highly psychologically stressful situation), & Lady Padfoot21.

You guys rock! :D


	19. Promises

**IF THE FOUNDATIONS BE DESTROYED, WHAT CAN THE RIGHTEOUS DO?**

I don't own Batman. DC Comics does.

Please note that violence will occur in this story, and that less offensive words like "damn" will be used, but more offensive words will be "asterisked" out. Some sexuality will occur but never anything explicit. As of now this story is rated "T"—if any readers feel the rating needs to be raised, please contact me accordingly and it will be.

**Chapter Nineteen: Promises**

_Thursday, 11:07 A.M._

Bruce finished his meal in silence, taking his time. He tried not to think too hard about what had just happened between him and the Joker. The clown had sternly warned him—in his own bizarre way—to keep his mouth in line. So Bruce simply resolved to do just that—but, with any luck, he would figure out a way out of here soon, and he wouldn't even need to bother. In the meantime, perhaps it was best to just not talk at all.

He glanced over to Giedre, noticing that as he did so Slink shifted a little. The gray man's eyes never once left the forms of the playboy and ambassador. Those hooded, watery orbs didn't even blink. Bruce decided that, while he might despise the Joker most of all, this particular goon was the worst of the clown's minions—if only for the reason that his presence was so repulsive.

"Are you all right?" the billionaire asked his companion quietly, but she didn't stir in her chair. She was staring at her food, managing to look simultaneously disgusted and fearful at the same time. What she was actually afraid of, Bruce couldn't fathom. Perhaps she thought it was poisoned, just as he had?

"It's really not that bad," he told her, softly, trying to be reassuring. "Some kind of oatmeal, I think. At least it's something."

Giedre didn't respond.

Bruce's heart sank. No matter what escape he planned, if she was unable to travel along it was all for naught. He had no idea what the Joker would do with her if he was gone—and he had a fairly certain idea of what the goons would. While he could blame himself as much as he pleased for this situation, in all honesty Giedre deserved none of this: at the moment she was nothing more than an innocent civilian in danger, the one thing that neither Batman nor Bruce Wayne could ever ignore. Should he not be able to escape with her, he would not be able to escape at all.

At the very least she should eat something, he supposed, if only to keep up her strength. How to draw her from her shock, though? He pondered this subject for a few minutes before scooting his chair closer to her—it wouldn't do to have the Joker overhear him _this_ time—and whispered,

"You really shouldn't let _him_ get to you like this, you know? He's just trying to scare you. If you don't keep your wits, then you've let him win. So come on. Snap out of it."

It was a gamble. Bruce never would have said anything remotely similar to this, had he not known Rachel as well as he did. Rachel would have heard those challenging words and seen them in a positive light. She would have risen to meet them, if only to show him that she could: even when they were children, she had always been so strong…

So he was relying on that—Rachel's strength. If Giedre had Rachel's mannerisms, perhaps his friend's tough nature was also present. Hopefully.

But Giedre still did not respond.

Should he try again? Mentally, Bruce wrestled with himself. The ambassador had been through a lot in the past few hours—she'd been forced to talk with Barnes (of all people), before being kidnapped, driven madly through Gotham's streets with a psychotic clown, and struck so badly that she now sported a terrible bruise on her cheek, ominously black on her lushly dark skin. Not to mention that she had also hit her head, which probably was even now throbbing painfully in tune with Bruce's right elbow. Was it right for him to try and push her back into awareness? Maybe he should allow her at least some time to begin coping with the situation on her own—was he being selfish, his desire to avoid having his other identity revealed making him rush her?

'_Don't sit here second-guessing,'_ he told himself silently. _'If you spend all your time doubting yourself, you'll never get anything done.'_

Besides, it was not just him who was in danger. The longer they remained here, the higher the chances that someone would try to harm the ambassador. And who knew if Bruce would even be able to stop him? After all, he was severely handicapped, lacking the proper use of his best arm, and without his armor he was vulnerable to all sorts of unpleasant weapons. Knives, guns, blunt objects… when one's opponent—or _opponents_—had these things, one could be injured fairly quickly. What help would he be to the ambassador then?

"Look," he said, trying to keep his voice reassuring while still low enough to avoid being overheard, "I know you're scared, all right? I _know_. I'm… I'm scared myself."

He hated having to admit that to anybody. For so long he'd worked hard, _so_ hard, to rid himself of fear and trepidation entirely, and suddenly he found himself slipping back into the unease he'd experienced throughout most of his early life. At first, in his youngest years, it had been the unknown that plagued his mind—then, for the short period of a year, bats. Bruce had been entirely terrified of bats: the way they squeaked, the way they swooped, their tiny little scrabbling feet and their horrible sharp little teeth, like a mouth full of needles… they had haunted his nightmares for the good part of a month after his fall into the garden well, and continued to revisit him every so often after that.

Then he had learned what true fear was—when a man pointed a gun not only at you, but at the ones you loved the most. And what it was like to be helpless. Truly helpless. Oh, he'd later hated himself for feeling that way, and resolved never to feel that way again. Alfred was easily convinced to let him engage in some basic self-defense classes: _Judo_, mostly. But eventually the pressures of family name and fortune had come crashing down on him, and he'd given it up for Princeton—only to relearn everything while on the other side of the world, where nobody knew his face and nobody was willing to hold back. What Gotham resident in his right mind would truly punch the Wayne heir while dueling in a local _Judo_ studio? But what Chinese thug on the street would hold back for a mere American kid? The realism of life on the street had taught him how to be strong far more than his pampered existence ever had.

Except now. No lesson could ever teach him how to deal with a madman—the insane simply weren't predictable. And no teacher could ever explain how to handle this situation. He simply would have to learn how to manage life as a hostage all on his own.

Bruce disliked that thought immensely. Not knowing what to do was a very helpless feeling. He hated being helpless—and he hated being afraid, much less admitting that fear to others. Most of all, he hated to admit it to himself.

But for the chance to get out of here? For that, he was willing to expose at least a small portion of his soul.

And it worked. When Giedre's soft brown eyes blinked, Bruce found himself praising God. It was like a cosmic miracle—like an angel had touched her and yanked her out from the abyss within. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

"You are?" her voice was so soft that Bruce almost mistook her words for the sound of her breathing. He nodded.

"Of course. Who wouldn't be?" he answered, "But it's going to be okay. We… we're going to find a way out of this, Ambassador. I promise."

'_You promised Rachel these things, too,' _his mind suddenly accused, but he ignored it.

"You do?" Giedre whispered, glancing around worriedly, almost like they were hatching a conspiracy. Which, given their topic, they technically were.

"Yeah. It shouldn't be too hard," Bruce told her, although in the back of his mind he was screaming at himself, _'LIAR!'_

"You won't leave me?"

He was struck by her question. So much like a child's. Giedre was regressing mentally—in this stressful set of circumstances she was shutting down the higher levels of thought, becoming docile and submissive. Bruce could understand that. The urge to just give in, to just let come what comes, let happen what will happen… it was very strong. If one didn't do anything, one wouldn't have to be held responsible. No matter what happened one could simply claim the status of a victim. Victimhood had a certain purifying quality to it in ordinary people's minds, a sort of way of absolving one of all guilt, no matter how irrational that concept was. All he had to do was give in, and his responsibilities would no longer plague him…

But then who would get them out of this situation? Who would stand up to the Joker, if not him? Batman would, but Batman wasn't present. Bruce Wayne was a far cry from the dark knight. Still, there was enough of the vigilante inside him that Bruce was disgusted with himself, for just even _thinking_ about giving in. No—he was too stubborn. That was the one quality that Bruce Wayne and Batman shared in abundance. In this situation it might damn him… or save him.

He'd take his chances.

Giedre didn't need to plan. He would do it for the both of them. It was probably better that way, anyway… after all, she wasn't the one who spent her nights jumping off rooftops. She didn't take risks like he did. If one was to butt heads with the Joker, then one had to be able to at least look him in the eye, and Bruce—whatever his shortcomings at the moment—could at least do that. Yes, he still wished for his mask… but somehow he would get through this without revealing too much of what lay underneath his many layers of deception. His worst fear would not be realized if they made their run sooner rather than later.

It worried him, however, how the ambassador was so afraid of every little thing. Frightened people tended to be clingy, latching on to anything that made them feel safe. He'd read of a psychological disorder, somewhere… he couldn't recall the name of it, but it involved hostage situations, where helpless hostages tended to start looking at stronger people—their captors, mostly—for direction. Could such a thing set in this quickly? Bruce didn't know. Most hostage situations lasted a few hours, right? Maybe a day or two at most. It had to set in fairly fast, then, and Giedre was certainly not up to controlling her own actions…

Well, better that she attach herself to him, than to the Joker, right? Bruce was determined that she wouldn't come to regard their captor in any positive light, whatsoever.

"I _promise_," he repeated the words, looking into her eyes earnestly as he answered her hesitant question. "I won't leave you. I won't abandon you. _Ever_. I swear."

Once again something in the back of his mind grumbled: _don't make promises you can't keep_—a phrase of Alfred's—crept into his thoughts. He'd promised Rachel he'd protect her, and how had that helped? Now he was doing the same to his best friend's double. But Bruce would learn from his mistakes. This time, if necessary, he would do anything to keep the Joker's mind and hands away from the person sitting beside him, even at great cost. Because the cost to his conscience, should she be hurt, would be far greater than anything he believed the clown could do to his body.

Something akin to a worn smile suddenly seemed to crease Giedre's cheeks, but it was more like a grimace of a sick person than a genuine sign of happiness.

"Good," the ambassador said, "Because I have to puke. Now. Maybe even all over your tux…"

The billionaire made a face. Yes, she probably did have some sort of concussion.

Well, the Joker had said he had free rein over this place, right? Swallowing hard and working up his courage, Bruce turned to the statue-like goon hovering a few paces away.

"Slink, right?" he said, keeping his voice even. The watery orbs focused on his face and remained there.

Inwardly Bruce suppressed a shudder and forced himself to continue talking.

"Do you have a bathroom down here?"

For throwing up, the toilet was always the best option. The next best was a bucket, but Bruce didn't think that the goons would be too happy emptying such a "present," and it was best to keep them all cheerfully indifferent to their guests.

"There," the gray man said, pointing with his thumb-less hand to one of the three doors contained within the main room. Cautiously Bruce stood, expecting at any moment that the Joker would take notice and come swooping over—but, although he did feel the clown's eyes focus on him, the monster did not approach. Instead he seemed to be in deep conversation with one of his goons, a man who was impossibly tall.

Turning, Bruce helped the ambassador to her feet. She swayed slightly, as if weak and nauseous, and he decided that after she emptied her stomach it would be best if she got some more rest. Wasn't that the cure for concussions? Bed rest? He'd had a few bumps on the head himself, and he'd been all right again after a few days. Whether his speedy recovery had been because he hadn't been hit all that hard, or because he somehow was strong enough to take it—possibly both?—he didn't know. In any case, Giedre did not seem to be taking her own injury that well.

Which meant, the billionaire noted grimly, that any escape attempt would need to be postponed at least a few days. Hopefully she would recover as quickly as he had. For, as long as she was bedridden, neither he nor she was going anywhere.

Slink… well, _slunk_ alongside them as they headed for the bathroom door. The man's footfalls were inaudible. It was like he was a ghost. Bruce chanced a frosty glare at the gray man, a warning to be left alone, but all he received in return was a blank stare. There was a tiny droplet of drool oozing out the corner of the goon's mouth.

The billionaire suppressed a second shudder.

"Oi, _Slink_, givin' our mates some trouble?"

This call came from Applejack, the same goon who had attempted to reassure Giedre earlier. His sandy hair was rather wild around his face as he rushed up to keep pace with them. Once again he winked at Giedre. She did not respond verbally—Bruce merely felt her clutch on his arm tighten. The ambassador was not quite capable of walking on her own, so he was helping to prop her up, and he was wary of the sandy-haired man's intentions. However, rather than fixating on Giedre, Applejack instead addressed Bruce.

"Havin' an all-right time so far?"

'_What do _you_ think?'_ Bruce wanted to shout, _'I've been kidnapped!'_ But he merely shrugged.

"It could be better," he said.

Applejack laughed.

"Yo," he announced, "Yer an' all-right kid, y'know? Eh, Slink, why don't ya bugger off for a bit and give them some breathin' room, allrighty? I'll make sure they aren't a-plannin' and a-schemin'—okay?"

The billionaire had serious doubts that the gray man would take such advice, but he apparently was wrong, for Slink silently veered back in the opposite direction. While this was unexpected, Bruce couldn't say that he minded being wrong in this instance. He gave Applejack a quick appreciative look as a way of thanking him. In response the goon grinned back, showing off yellow teeth.

Didn't anyone around here use a toothbrush?

Or was bad hygiene a rule for the Joker's motley crew?

Opening the indicated door revealed a small room that had definitely been rigged up as a bathroom. Face pale, Giedre slipped inside. Bruce hung back and shut the door.

"Just say something if you want me to come in," he told her, not quite sure what to do in this situation. Should one stand by while one's guest puked their guts out? He supposed that she should have some privacy. Besides, who knew what the Joker would say if he saw them both enter at the same time—it would probably be something horrid and embarrassing, and while it was one thing to torment Bruce it was completely another to torment the ambassador. If anything, Bruce would draw the line there.

So he stood outside, leaning on the cinder-block wall, allowing himself the moment to relax. Just relax. Somehow, it was easier to breathe over here. Did it have something to do with the Joker being on the other side of the room? After all, the clown's presence was very stifling, as if the intensity contained within him contaminated the air and smothered Bruce's thoughts, snuffing them out one by one. Almost as if the monster could see them all, every thought and idea in the vigilante's head, and was removing and remolding them to suit his own purposes. But Bruce refused to believe this sudden flight of fancy: the Joker was just a man, he told himself—a madman, yes, but overall a simple human being. He would not have such a drastic effect on others as to influence the core of their very psyche.

By giving the Joker god-like powers, he would only end up falling into the clown's clutches even more securely than he was already. If anything, he was going to break what little hold the monster already had on him: he was going to escape, together with the ambassador, and then Batman was going to go clown-hunting. Eventually this would all be only another nightmare to haunt what little sleep he managed to catch between his day and night jobs.

"Want one?" came Applejack's voice. Bruce's blue eyes refocused on the goon, who was holding out a cigarette. The billionaire shook his head. Applejack merely shrugged and lit it for himself.

"No, thank you." Best to be polite, after all—this was the one goon who had shown some sort of sympathy. Perhaps he might be able to make use of this.

"Uh…" he said, trying to choose his words carefully. His utterance served to make him the center of Applejack's attention.

"I… well, I also want to thank you…" the billionaire made a slight show of discomfort, his mind inwardly gauging the sandy-haired man's reaction. "For, um, _him_."

He indicated the gray form of Slink, halfway across the room. Applejack's lips broke into a grin.

"Aw, that's no problem, he's just a real _screamer_, ain't 'e? Ol' Slink's the fellow 'round here who everybody loves ter hate."

The goon sobered, taking a bigger puff. "Not that the boss cares much 'bout that."

"What do you mean?" Bruce asked.

"Ah… well, 's a long story. Wouldn' want ter bore ya." As the goon spoke, a stream of smoke burst from his lips, making it almost seem as if his innards were on fire.

The billionaire was thinking that he should perhaps pressure a bit more, just to get the minion to talk, but for the moment he held off. He had the feeling that Applejack was a blabber, ready to spill anything. It was the same sort of feeling he had about Marishka, who was the unofficial gossip extraordinaire of high-class society. This feeling must have been right, too, for Bruce was not disappointed.

Looking around conspiratorially, Applejack finally continued in a hushed voice,

"Boss an' him _unnerstand_ each other, see? They did time t'gether. In the loony bin. All three of 'em, in the deepest pit 'o the place, locked up good an' tight."

"_Three?_" Bruce prodded. "Who's the—"

"Ah, that'd be good ol' Wen-_di_-go." Applejack sniffed. "_There's_ a crazy fellow for yer, hoppin' mad. There longer than either of 'em. Good reason, too—'e's got the _skills_, but no' the plannin' to use 'em… _y'know_ what I mean."

Bruce really didn't know, but he wasn't about to interrupt.

"So, then—th' three of 'em. All locked up tight. Havin' a _vacation_, the Joker calls it. Well, they're sprung out, an' the first thing tha' happens is the Joker and ol' Wen-_di_-go get to quarrelin'. Each wantin' ter be the boss, see? But ol' Slink steps between 'em, an' calls a truce. Right smart of 'im, considerin' he'd be bulldozed over by the both of 'em—he's only a _little_ wacko, as I see it. Not like them."

"I see," Bruce said, his voice calm. Internally, his mind was racing. _Wendigo_. Had he ever heard that name before? Surely not. It was just odd enough to be memorable. But whoever carried it had done just enough evil deeds to be put in the same secure wing of Arkham as the Joker. Or, rather, the _Joker_ had done just enough evil deeds to be put in the same wing as _him_. This lunatic must have been before his time, Bruce decided—perhaps put away when he was a child, maybe before he was even born. If he had possessed a connection to the Internet, a simple "search" of Gotham Times would have sufficed to reveal this wacko's identity and crimes… as it was, he'd have to settle for picking up snippets of information here and there.

Applejack was probably his best source. The man obviously loved talking—and he wasn't finished yet.

"Y'can ask, why would ol' _Applejack_ think that? Not w'out reason." Puffing out his chest proudly, the goon's lungs let out another billowing cloud of smoke. Bruce tried not to gag as it passed over him. His efforts went unnoticed by the sandy-haired man, who was obviously enthralled by the sound of his own voice.

"Y'see, both the boss and Wen-_di_-go like fun stuff. Gasoline, dynamite, the whole she_bang_—literally"—the goon paused to grin at his own joke—"but _Slink_ don' think like that. Thinks _much_ smaller. Goes after women."

Bruce's blood went cold. A serial killer, then?

"Got six of 'em," Applejack chuffed, "B'fore the cops got to 'im. All pretty young redheads. Can't say I like 'em that fiery m'self, _but—"_

And here the goon leaned in closer, forcing Bruce to back up slightly in an effort to breathe air and not smoke. The minion smiled sardonically.

"'S the way 'e _got_ 'em, I suppose, tha' made 'em lock 'im up—"

Fortunately, at that exact second, the sandy-haired man was interrupted. Bruce praised Heaven; for he was entirely sure he didn't want to know whatever information the goon was going to present next. Ignorance was bliss. And non-nightmare inducing.

"I-I think I'm a little b-better now," Giedre choked out, leaning heavily against the now open doorframe. She looked excruciatingly tired and pale, but all Bruce noticed at that moment was that her hair was black like his, not blood-red like Temperance's. Thank God.

"Let's have you go lie back down," he advised quickly, before Applejack could start up again. "I'll bring you some food for after your nap, okay?"

He took her arm like she was a little girl, who had stayed up past her bedtime and was now being led away to dreamland. She didn't at all protest—yet another sign of her utter dependence on being guided right now. Bruce's determination that he be the one to steer her, rather than a certain psychotic clown, doubled when he saw her glazed eyes. Yes—something was certainly off inside that head of hers. Hopefully she would heal quickly.

Luckily the bedroom door was fairly close to the bathroom's. Applejack didn't even need to move from his position in order to stay within reasonable earshot, although his eyes did follow them. Giedre leaned heavily on Bruce's arm the entire way. Opening the door, the billionaire slipped inside and managed to ease her onto the bed without letting her head tilt too quickly.

"Just take it easy," he told her, this time making use of the covers to tuck her in. This was odd—he felt like a parent, but he ignored the sensation in favor of focusing on her. "Have some rest. You'll feel better when you wake up again."

'_Hopefully,'_ he added mentally, though he had to fight to keep a grimace off his face until Giedre's brown eyes fluttered shut. With her in this condition, there was no way they'd be escaping any time soon.

Though he knew he had to leave the room quickly, lest the men outside get curious of just what he was _doing_ in there alone with her—he hated the concept of being thought of in those terms, but this was part of the package of "playboy Wayne"—he took the brief opportunity to curse the Joker once more. Had the clown known he was tethering Bruce here by injuring the Ambassador? Somehow the billionaire doubted it, but he couldn't dismiss the idea completely. The Joker had a strange way of planning ahead… he slipped back out the door, shutting it silently so as to not disturb the sleeper within, and quickly looked over the room. Nobody seemed to notice him.

On the other side of the room the Joker was "mingling" with the group of goons. This struck Bruce as odd. "Mingling" was yet another thing he could not picture the Joker doing—and here the clown was, defying his expectations. With Slink sullenly following him about, not unlike a bothersome fly, the Joker sauntered through the crowd of perhaps twenty-five to thirty thugs, chattering away and listening to others in turn. A large smile was on his face. It seemed genuine enough an expression—yet Bruce wasn't about to trust in mere appearances. Nothing bloody happened, however, and he was forced to conclude that the Joker was either very good at pretending or authentically enjoying himself.

Bruce stayed there, at the bedroom door, for the longest time. When he grew tired of standing he sat on the cold concrete, leaning back against the cinder-block walls. His head fell down against his knees. Exhaustion seemed to press down on him, squeezing all strength from his body. It hurt even to blink, but he refused to shut his eyes, no matter how much he had to struggle to keep them open. Nearby Applejack was humming in a rather pleasant way—he carried a tune much better than the Joker did. The rhythmic noise only served to make Bruce sleepier. While the smoke from the cigarette still irritated his nose, he found it easier and easier to ignore…

He was abruptly brought back to awareness by a roar of laughter from the direction of the crowd of goons. Lifting his head he found the Joker was lying on the floor, kicking his heels and howling with what had to be peals of mirth. Around him, his minions shared his merriment.

"Ah, ha _ha_, Vodka, you _cur!_ That _foot_ of yours—aha! Would you _mind_ keeping it in place, _eh?_ That's _how_ many times you've… y-you've _stuck_ your toes where my feet land? HA! _Next_… hmmn, _next_ time, it's _off _with your foot, you d-_devil_ you! A_ha_…"

Applejack was chuckling. Bruce didn't find the situation funny. Sure, he supposed, the Joker had tripped, but the threat of amputation was hardly a joking matter.

Very slowly did the Joker regain his feet, being hindered by the fact that his laughter seemed to take the effort of his whole body. Finally being reduced to giggles, he was able to stand and waved his hand lightheartedly about.

"Alright, then, hm_mmnn_…. _Where_ was I? Ah _yes_—"

But whatever story he was about to launch into was abruptly interrupted. The clown's face fell. Even though he was some feet away, Bruce's eyes were still sharp, and so he saw the reason why: the Joker's waving hand had involuntarily begun to shake once more. Immediately the maniac drew it in close, almost cradling it, and the grimace on his red lips was almost painful to witness. Suddenly the monster was all seriousness.

"_Vodka!"_ he barked at a tall goon, angrily. "You might think… _tripping_ me is funny, _but_ do it _again_ and I'll, a_hem_, be looking for another _beverage_, you idiotic _dolt!_ What I _put up with…_ hmmn, and _you!_ All of you! Think it's, ah, _fun_ to see me in the _dirt, _eh? Change your _tunes_ and _shape up_… we've got a _serious_ operation to run here, _and you're not helping!"_

With that he stormed from the room, flinging himself through the third (and until then unopened) door, slamming it with an earsplitting _crack_ behind him. Bruce was thankful that the entrance to Giedre's room was on a separate wall. While he never wanted to attract the clown's attention, somehow he had the strong sense that being the monster's focus during one of these rages would not be conductive to his health.

The chastised goons all hung about, suspended where they stood, sheepishly glancing about at one another. As if they were embarrassed after being caught sneaking peeks at their Christmas presents. Applejack let out a humorless laugh.

"Get a good thrashin', gents?"

None of the others were brave enough to respond, though Bruce saw Slink had raised an eyebrow. Or, rather, because the gray man was completely hairless, he raised the ridge of skin where an eyebrow should have been. Seeing as the initial shock of the Joker's outburst had faded, it was becoming hard for Bruce to hold his head up once more, so he let it fall back to his knees.

The cinder-blocks felt damp against his back—an unpleasant feeling that would likely soak through his tux. Shifting a bit, Bruce wiggled over to Giedre's door, propping his spine against the wood. Ah, better. Now he could sit and think.

Something was wrong with the Joker. That was a given, Bruce knew—this was a psychotic clown he was talking about, after all. But not _mentally_ wrong… more like, _medically_ wrong.

'_Perhaps he's caught a fatal disease,'_ Bruce's mind quipped. Though none of the goons could see because of his bowed head, a smile slid onto the billionaire's features, although due to his tired state it slipped off just as quickly.

'_I can only hope,'_ he thought. If that was so then he wouldn't have to worry about ever killing the clown after all—mother nature would do it for him. Maybe this was the hand of God striking down His worst creation. If only.

At the same time, though, wouldn't a deathly sick Joker be even more terrible than a healthy one? After all, he would know of his imminent death—he'd have nothing to lose. This could serve to make him even more psychotic.

What was he thinking? Bruce mentally wanted to slap himself. During their first encounter the Joker hadn't cared whether he lived or died. Even when Batman had knocked him from the top of a building, the maniac's only reaction had been to laugh the entire way down. The clown had even sounded somewhat disappointed when Batman had snagged him and hauled him back up. After all, the Bat Man had been _so close_ to proving the nasty little nihilist right, so _close_ to breaking his one rule…

Bruce snorted. Should the Joker be terribly sick, he'd probably continue to be as crazy as he had always been. Especially seeing as he couldn't get much crazier in the first place.

And how did he know that whatever it was would be life-threatening? For all he knew, the Joker was experiencing aftereffects from a peanut allergy or something. The billionaire had never been good at medical stuff—he left that mostly to Alfred (and, of late, Dr. Norbert), only learning the basics of first aid through trial and error. He even had the scars hidden under his tux to prove this. Bruce was just fantasizing that the Joker would somehow die sooner rather than later…

'_You really shouldn't be happy about _anyone_ dying,'_ he told himself. A life was a life, right? No matter whether it was criminally insane. Batman operated on that principle. As Alfred often said, _"Don't be like one of __**them**_."

At the same time, however, although he knew he shouldn't be thinking such thoughts, he had trouble stopping himself from wishing deathly illness upon his captor. It was almost impossible for him to drill up any sort of remorse or guilt for these thoughts, either. While he was pondering these things his eyelids drooped lower—his stream of consciousness was eventually broken off completely by sleep, although he was blissfully unaware of any single point where his theorizing and moral pondering turned to harmless dreams.

**000 Author's Note 000**

I really don't think the Joker is so homicidal a maniac that he just tortures and kills his minions at random, or maybe even for just little mistakes (minions can be hard to come by, sometimes!). Of course, that doesn't mean that he somehow _cares_ for them in any personal sense, but rather that he sees them as pawns and knows the adage that you get more flies with honey than vinegar. Plus, I think very few people would serve as his lackeys (no matter _how_ much he pays), if he was just a mean ol' grouch all the time, or if he was always acting crazy.

Thusly, I can see him both playing friendly and chatting it up with his minions, and yet not caring a whit that 20 or so of them were killed in an explosion—which, by the way, _he_ set off. As evidence I take the "why so serious" scene, when he kills Gambol: he had to be carried up in a trash bag by his goons, and therefore had to trust them to at least the extent that they wouldn't kill him on the way and take the bounty for themselves. In addition he has that quirky explanation ("_Now_, our operation is _small_, but there's a lot of potential for…_aggressive expansion_…"), where all of his goons are grinning and nodding, like they're cheering him on. They don't seem concerned or overly afraid of him at all, just obedient—and when he makes the mobsters have "tryouts," his ending comment makes it sound like he's doing this for his goons' sport ("make it fast"), especially so because he doesn't stick around to see the action himself.

So, I just thought I'd explain my reasoning for having him act this way with his minions in this chapter. Don't take it too seriously (ha, ha, ha?). And _**do**_ feel free to tell me that you disagree, because I'm not so certain about my theory. I mean, I am just basing it off one scene. Ah, well…

I'd like to thank my reviewers: Vanafindiel (we'll see them next chapter), Dark.Morning (glad you like Slink--I hope you learn to hate him ;)), Thedarkknight17, Lady Padfoot21, Padfoot n' Moony, Ethos (I've never really seen that movie...but I'm still confident enough to say 'no' :)), fluffyfg, Almost Funny, RedNex, the nameless reviewer of chapter 15, Heir to the World (thx for your idea of how to pronounce "Giedre"...wow you must be observant, but in this story Bruce's arm was hurt by Silhouhette--o' course, we haven't seen her for a while :)), Gemstone, Haladflire65, Mickerayla (who's Obadiah Stane?), Kirsten-B (thank YOU for reading :)), Idiotic-Ice, & Ladyofthestar.

Ice cream all around!


	20. Worries

**IF THE FOUNDATIONS BE DESTROYED, WHAT CAN THE RIGHTEOUS DO?**

I don't own Batman. DC Comics does.

Please note that violence will occur in this story, and that less offensive words like "damn" will be used, but more offensive words will be "asterisked" out. Some sexuality will occur but never anything explicit. As of now this story is rated "T"—if any readers feel the rating needs to be raised, please contact me accordingly and it will be.

This chapter is a long, rambling monstrosity. Perhaps one day I'll come back and fix it. As of now, however, things are so busy that you can all count your lucky stars I was able to post anything at all. :)

**Chapter Twenty: Worries**

_Thursday, 12:28 A.M. (Previously)_

This was the worst day of Alfred's life.

He'd been awoken around midnight by a phone call. Bruce's late night activities had worn off on him long ago, so he normally was awake for most of the night—in this instance, however, he must have dozed off. Yet, the very second that the caller identified herself as the receptionist of Gotham General Hospital, he was jolted wide awake.

Alfred had been dreading a situation similar to that phone call for years: his nightmares were filled with a nervous nurse explaining to him that Master Wayne had been found lying brutalized in some alley, badly hurt or possibly even killed. It wasn't the personal ramifications of being discovered as "Batman's accomplice" that bothered the old man: all his thoughts were always on Bruce's well-being. The younger man was as close to a son as Alfred had ever known—even his fondness for the deceased Thomas and Martha was overshadowed by his love for the sole Wayne heir.

How many nights had Alfred laid awake in his bed, wondering and waiting? Initially he had thought that Batman was a passing thing. That either Bruce would grow out of it, or maybe realize that Batman really wasn't needed. But over time it wasn't Bruce's opinion that changed—it was Alfred's. He had come to realize that Batman was just what Gotham needed. A faceless hero. A hero under a mask, a hero who could be almost anybody, anyone, in all of Gotham. The fact that this faceless mask was daily spat upon by the city's citizens only confirmed this reality. Alfred knew the truth: true heroes weren't seen as heroes. True heroes were always vilified in the people's eyes. Heroes did what they did because it was right—not because people praised them for it, for when true morality was displayed most people would disdain its bearer. As he'd often told Bruce, "_Don't be like one of __**them**__."_ Sometimes he wondered if the younger man understood all the complicated implications of that simple phrase…

In any case, Alfred had grown to believe in Batman more than Master Wayne himself, but that didn't help him sleep any better. He continued to wait up during those long nights, praying to God that the dreaded phone call would never come. Thusly, when he discovered a hospital receptionist on the other end of the phone line, his old heart very nearly stopped.

'_Please God, __**no**__.'_

But, instead of confirming Alfred's worst fear, with her next sentence the woman merely explained that two of his colleagues, Remember Temperance Yates and Tobit O'Brien, had been in an accident and were waiting in the emergency room. She was unable to elaborate further, claiming that the hospital had been "swamped," and with that excuse hung up. Alfred did not get the chance to ask about Bruce. It was rather odd to receive a call about Temperance and Toby, but not about his employer. Hopefully this had meant that Master Wayne was unharmed. There was no way to know until he got there, however.

This was only the first spike and dip of what would be a day full of emotional roller-coasters, but throughout the entire nightmarish affair Alfred's thoughts were consumed with one person. Where was Master Wayne? What had happened to Bruce? Nobody seemed able to answer the question, no matter how many times it was asked. Everything had descended into chaos—and the more Alfred began to learn, the more troubled his state of mind became.

Not trusting himself to drive—mostly because his nerves had been so badly rattled, instead of the growing infirmity of his aged hands—Alfred had called Cook Kwan to come along. Despite the late hour she did so without complaint. Yes, the butler supposed, she had been a good hire. She even seemed as genuinely worried as he was.

The hospital truly was a mess. Nurses and doctors scrambling everywhere, patients being rushed through the emergency room's doors with alarming speed, almost like an avalanche of bodies, broken bones, blood, cuts, and gaping bullet wounds. Adding to the anarchy was the near-omnipresence of policemen, who were rushing about, helping wounded comrades and carrying in those partygoers near death. They were also intent on questioning any people who were still mentally collected enough to speak coherently. All in all, the sounds of physicians shouting, patients screaming, and cops ranting made the place into a veritable nuthouse.

Alfred was unconcerned with most of this--although when he heard the words "The Joker" in a particularly panicked man's sentence, he realized the cause of all these troubles doubtless came from the Arkham escapee. With Cook Kwan huddled nervously at his side, he made a quick scan of the room, and found plenty of familiar faces—but not the three ones he was looking for. One could only stand the chaos for so long. He left quickly, Kwan trailing after him, relieved to be out of the gigantic mess.

Making his way to the front desk, he found the receptionists in utter disarray. Hospital phones were passed from hand to hand—there wasn't enough of them to go around, it seemed, so several of the staff were actually using their private cell phones. Relatives of the injured, along with the odd insistent journalist, were all pushing and shoving to gain access to the front desk, the rules of orderly lines and waiting forgotten. News had traveled fast—Alfred knew that the sparse journalists interspersed with this crowd were only the first wave of what certainly would be a tsunami of eager newsmen, ready to make their careers on this single story alone. He had to get Master Wayne out of here, as quickly as possible—like Bruce, Alfred for the most part found the media to be exceptionally wearying at best, but dangerous at worst. If they pried overmuch, they might see something in the Wayen heir besides the worthless playboy.

Getting to the reception desk, however, would be the tricky part. Alfred supposed that at this point it was probably best to just do a manual search of the hospital itself, rather than shove his way through the struggling mass before him. In all likelihood he'd find Master Wayne and his two colleagues faster that way.

Just as he had made this decision, a loud voice boomed in an unmistakably Bostonian accent: "EVERYBODY WHO _DOESN'T_ WANT TO BE WRITTEN UP, OUT OF THE WAY! NOW!"

A blonde policeman, several others trailing after him, approached the desk through the parted crowd. Along the way he singled Alfred out.

"You're awful nice and quiet. We're gonna have some order in here, starting with the polite ones. That makes you first in line."

The butler nodded thanks. Together with his small band of brothers, the blonde cop began restoring order to the room. Several people complained, but received no response. To Alfred it seemed as if this man's mind was somewhere else entirely. He went through all his motions mechanically. Oddly enough, too, he badly smelled of smoke.

Had there been a fire, Alfred wondered? Had something happened to Councilman Barnes' house? Almost every patient down in the emergency room had been familiar to the butler, who had memorized the names of Gotham's elite after spending a lifetime in their service. Surely these people had been invited to Barnes' party. Something terrible indeed must have happened.

Being first in line, he quickly received news from the receptionist that Temperance and Toby, having non-life threatening injuries, had been "triaged" to a spare room on the second floor. On his way to the elevator, Alfred paused by the blonde cop.

"Alfred Pennyworth," he introduced himself, and the policeman nodded.

"John Baldassare."

"If you don't mind me interrupting your work," the butler asked, "I simply must ask—what's happened here? Has something happened to Councilman Barnes' home?"

The cop looked surprised. "So. News does travel fast in Gotham."

"I heard some people screaming about the Joker in the emergency room," Alfred explained. "Don't tell me he's caused all this?"

At this, Baldassare sighed. "Yeah. Yeah, he has. Or so the witnesses are saying. Someone said that he or his crony shot the Commissioner." A dark look passed over the Boston native's face. "They don't want to meet me in a back alley anytime soon."

'_Nor me, either, if something's happened to Master Bruce,'_ Alfred thought, although it had been years since he'd been in the service and had to kill anyone. He counted the Wayne heir to be an extremely fortunate man, having never taken a life despite being the Batman himself. At the thought of Bruce he was no longer able to delay, however, so he said a quick goodbye to the policeman and rushed to the elevators, Kwan in tow.

The ride up one single floor wasn't fast enough. Alfred was tapping his foot. Kwan, for her part, was subdued. An ominous sort of aura seemed to settle over the both of them, although they both refused to acknowledge it, either to themselves or to each other. When they arrived on the second floor, the butler fairly flung himself from the elevator's confines, hurrying at top speed along the hallway. Had he been half his age, he could not have been faster. The cook was hastening along some paces behind him, huffing with effort.

Every step only settled the dread deeper in Alfred's heart. The last time he'd felt like this… it must have been just before Joe Chill's release hearing, when Bruce had been so adamant that he should attend. Understanding the young man so well, Alfred just knew that something was up. He wouldn't ask Master Wayne, of course, for the younger man would not have responded kindly to such prodding… but still something deep within Alfred had told him a dreadful incident was going to happen—both back then, and now in the present. Bruce was unstable at times. Prone to doing what, in his mind, was the most heroic thing.

If the Joker had appeared during Barnes' party… there was no telling what Bruce would have done. Something brave and very laudable, of course—Master Wayne was, after all, the Batman, and Alfred believed the caped crusader to be a true hero—but at that moment Alfred didn't want brave and laudable for Bruce. He wanted safe and secure, prudent and cautious. Nothing flashy. Indeed, he probably would have given his employer the highest of praises if only he'd heard that the young man had stayed out of the clown's way.

Somehow, though, with every step the certainty seemed to cement deeper into Alfred's mind: Bruce would never have simply stood by.

Thus, arriving in the room to find only Temperance and Toby, the first words out of his mouth were, "Where is Master Wayne?"

"He was inside the Councilman's home, last I saw," the redhead responded. She sat in a chair, pressing a white cloth against her face, the center of which was already a deep red color. From the room's bed Toby nodded, his face twisted with pain. When Alfred gave the driver a concerned look, however, the younger man put on a brave facade.

"Ain't nothing, Mr. Pennyworth… just a bit of a break in the leg, that's all… I'll be fine before you even miss me."

Then his face turned into a frightened look. "Just… don't tell my wife what happened, okay?"

"What _did_ happen?" Alfred asked, his mind beginning to race once more. Why were his two colleagues and his employer separated? Especially during a time like this?

"We crashed—" Toby began, but Temperance interrupted him.

"It was my fault, sir. I ordered him to crash the limousine."

At this Alfred's eyes widened.

"You crashed the limousine with Master Wayne in it?"

"No, sir," Temperance sighed. "No, he was still inside the building when this happened. There were these clowns, you see, and they shut the doors to the house. And there was another clown in a vehicle—a getaway car, I suppose—and I ordered Mr. O'Brien to ram it."

"Which I did," Toby protested. "Fire me, sir, not her. I pushed the pedal."

Alfred only brought a hand up to the bridge of his nose. "Nobody's getting fired."

"But—" Temperance protested, as if shocked. 'Y_es, she would be one to object, wouldn't she?'_ Alfred noted. She was always so concerned with following the rules…

"Master Bruce was inside the Councilman's house?" he asked again.

"Yes," both of his colleagues replied, although not quite in unison.

"And something bad happened to the Councilman's house?" Alfred prodded, guessing that this was the reason all the people below, whom he recognized as attendees of the party list, were in the emergency room.

"It collapsed. There was an explosion," Temperance explained.

So calmly. So collected. Sometimes Alfred envied her. Other times… less so.

"Was Master Bruce in the explosion?"

Now there was a question he never wanted to ask. Or hear the answer to, for that matter, but at the same time he simply had to know.

But here their information seemed to run dry.

"I suppose so," said Temperance, slowly. "I mean, I didn't see him leave—"

"An' there was a lot of people running out," Toby added.

"But we didn't see him," the redhead said, "Down in the emergency room. He wasn't there. Therefore he must be either unharmed… or dead."

She fell silent. It was obvious to Alfred that she'd been pondering this for a while now.

Unharmed and alive, or certainly harmed and dead. The best and worst of all the options—both of which had suddenly become equally likely. Alfred tried to calm himself, putting on his usual cool outer façade. Temperance and Toby sat there, quietly.

"Well," said the butler finally, "If he is alive, then the police will be questioning him."

This would be especially so, since the billionaire would probably be one of the few partygoers to keep his head. As Batman he'd faced the Joker before—Alfred believed that Bruce would have no reason to panic. Then again, Alfred knew, Bruce was a talented actor, although the role he played was not itself very difficult and the butler sometimes could see the mask slip unintentionally. So it could be just as likely that Master Wayne was busy engaging in his playboy act, pretend panicking along with everyone else.

Still, the police were questioning the wounded downstairs. Assuredly they would also question those unharmed, even if they were engaged in hysterics. And Alfred suddenly knew just who to ask about his employer's whereabouts.

Leaving Kwan with his two wounded colleagues, Alfred made his way back to the first floor. Mr. Baldassare was still there, ordering around his fellow policemen and the surrounding civilians in a manner that reminded the butler somewhat of a drill sergeant, when the older man approached him again. He didn't seem to mind radioing out to see if any of his fellow officers knew where the Wayne heir was.

Nobody did.

At every negative response, Alfred's heart sank lower. Baldassare seemed to understand. He gave the older man a commiserating look. No words of comfort, though. The policeman seemed to know that words were of little use in this situation, except to make only their speaker feel better. Alfred could appreciate that, at least.

The rest of the morning was spent with Kwan in Temperance and Toby's room. Only around noon did the hospital's staff have the disaster in the emergency room under enough control to begin treating those without life threatening injuries. Toby's leg was x-rayed and placed in a cast. Temperance had the cut in her face sewn up not long after that. At this reminder Alfred absentmindedly thought back to a few days ago, when Master Bruce had arrived home with a cut on the back of his head—yet another trophy of the nocturnal life—and Alfred had sewn it up for him. That seemed so long ago. Almost another lifetime. How bizarre was this?—that sewing up his employer's head counted as "good times"? Such was the life of Batman and his ever-faithful sidekick.

In remembering this Alfred also recalled that Temperance had seen the scattered bits of evidence left over afterwards—the sewing needle, the bloody washcloth… Alfred knew she had some suspicions, but she had thus far kept quiet. He wondered if she had managed to piece things together. Unlikely—billionaire boy Bruce Wayne and the Bat Man were two polar opposites. But in a way he had been counting on her sharp mind to figure it out. It was always so much harder to show and tell than to let someone discover and learn by themselves. If she was going to manage the household some day, Alfred didn't want the Batman to be alone—for that would mean that Bruce would be unaided, as well. So, he supposed, if she were to discover Batman's identity all on her own, Bruce would have no say-so in the matter, and his stubborn tendency toward privacy would be subverted by the circumstances. Alfred could rest easy knowing that, should anything happen to him, Bruce at least would have someone else to lean on if need be.

Perhaps Alfred was being a bit drastic, but there did come a time in life when one realized that one was not immortal. Alfred had helped raise Thomas Wayne—Bruce Wayne was now in his mid-twenties. Eighty-four years was a long life by any count. Oh, he was still physically fit—mostly—but the idea of running Wayne Manor at ninety was very daunting. Retirement wasn't on Alfred's mind, or in his personality. But he still knew it would be nice to have help.

As the day continued, every so often a tidbit of news would come through. There was a television in the room, so all four of them sat and quietly watched. In many cases the media would receive the news occurring in the hospital before it reached them. They were able to gain pertinent bits of unique information ahead of time, though—for example, they knew an hour ahead of the media that Commissioner Gordon had been stabilized. That at least was some very good news—besides Alfred and Lucius, the Commissioner was the only other man alive who knew of Batman's innocence.

Where exactly Batman—or his more mild-mannered side—was at the moment, however, remained a mystery. As did the location of the foreign ambassador, Giedre.

There was a connection there. Alfred just knew it. He had no proof but his own gut instinct, but that rarely failed him. Master Wayne would never have allowed anything to happen to his guest. If the Joker had done something against her… Bruce would have intervened. Even if he was terrified of the clown. Oh, Alfred knew that Bruce would talk brave and shrug off his butler's concerns, but that deep down he did indeed still have fears. Everyone feared something. For Bruce, his nightmare had progressed from childish terror of bats, to the man who had tried to bring down Gotham. In Alfred's mind there was nothing wrong with that. Only mindless robots were completely unafraid. Fear made one human. It was how one responded to fear, however, that made one a hero.

There was no doubt in Alfred's mind that Bruce was a hero. Even if the younger man didn't notice it himself.

Unfortunately, even heroes could still die.

'_Don't be under all that rubble, Master Bruce,'_ Alfred thought, tiredly, as he stared at the remains of the Councilman's house on the TV screen. Workers were shifting carefully through the burnt mass, occasionally stirring up bodies. _'I don't think I could forgive you.'_

It turned out that Councilman Barnes was under all the rubble—but he had somehow managed to survive, as a pocket of air had been trapped along with him. The odd part, reported the girl delivering the news onscreen, was that sources close to the rescuers said he had a shrimp stuffed in his mouth.

That had the Joker written all over it, Alfred supposed.

Hours dragged by unceasingly. Still no news. No body, no information… nothing. An unpleasant sort of numbness was beginning to settle in Alfred's mind. He felt as if he couldn't care. All the stress was wearing on him. Shutting him down. He didn't want to think or feel any more, because to do so, to just sit and wonder and hypothesize, hurt something deep inside of him. Temperance awoke him gently from a quick nap to tell him some more news.

Gordon had been revived. Only for a few seconds. But long enough to gasp out that the Joker had taken the Ambassador.

A ransom, then, everyone was saying. A heist. The party had been targeted for money. Didn't you know, asked everyone, that the Ambassador owns a large, worldwide bank? What other reason could there be for the Joker's appearance, but money?

For Alfred, this news only confirmed that his employer had definitely done something drastic. Whatever it was, he couldn't be certain. But a sneaking suspicion that Bruce would not have left the Ambassador, under any situation, started to creep into the butler's mind. The thought of Bruce being in that madman's hands was enough to bring a unfathomable dread into Alfred's bones, however, and so he stopped himself from dwelling on this subject overmuch.

A little past eleven at night, he received a phone call from the Mayor.

Garcia was frantic. His polls had taken a nosedive unrivaled in political history. Gotham's citizenry was furious. And he was the one saddled with the blame.

'_Good riddance,'_ Alfred thought.

Nevertheless, playing the part of the good public servant, he readied himself to visit Gotham's ailing leader—though with deliberate slowness, so Garcia could sit and tremble while waiting for him to arrive. Perhaps it was childish, but Alfred still had some sense of wanting the Mayor to feel what he'd been through in the past day, waiting for some news, even a hint, of Master Wayne's un-deceased status—which, unfortunately, had still not come.

Around forty-five minutes later, he arrived at the Mayor's house. The place had been turned into a makeshift office, for apparently the Joker had blown the roof off the actual building. Narrowly, Alfred managed to avoid colliding with the D.A., Huerta. She was rushing helter-skelter through the home, leaving a trail of chaotic papers in her wake.

"Alfred!" the Mayor sighed, the moment that the butler entered his bedroom/improvised office. Documents crinkled underfoot as the older man moved to lower his aching body into a sitting chair. The Mayor was pacing frantically.

"It's Mr. Pennyworth," Alfred told him, and Garcia paused.

"Oh? Why, yes, yes—Mr. Pennyworth," the politician simpered, before turning and stopping abruptly before Alfred's chair. "You have to help me."

"Oh?" Alfred mimicked, though he did so with a straight face. "And how could a mere butler like me service a fine outstanding leader of democracy such as yourself?"

"It's a nightmare," moaned the Mayor, flicking on the TV on his desk, allowing Alfred to see the image of his diving poll numbers flash onscreen before turning it quickly off, as if he couldn't bear it. "I just need help! You knew Mr. Wayne well, didn't you? Why don't you issue a press statement, saying he would have continued to have faith in me—"

"I'm afraid I can't do that," was the butler's immediate response. He was tired, it was late, and worst of all he was worried… no, _terrified_ over the current unknown whereabouts of the young man, the one person whos he could not have loved more, even if he had been born as Alfred's own biological son. Therefore, in Alfred's mind, there was no point in beating around the bush.

Garcia stared at him. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Alfred told him, "That I will not engage in whatever little trick you have planned to salvage what is left of your career."

"But—" the Mayor's eyes bugged out. They looked like gooey white grapes. "But—but—y-you can't do that!"

"I can and I am," said the older man.

Garcia's mouth opened. Then closed, then opened again. Like a fish gasping for water.

"But it's not your decision to make!" he finally squeaked out.

"It most assuredly is," Alfred said immediately, feeling quite offended. Since when did he not have control over his own actions?

Yet Garcia wasn't finished. "Mr. Wayne allied himself with me! He's your employer! You… you can't just go against his wishes when he isn't around!"

"I promise you, Mr. Mayor, that you know nothing about what Master Wayne does or does not wish," Alfred's voice was curt. He was becoming angry. Clutching at the chair, he managed to haul himself up—even though he was older, he still towered over the Mayor.

"As I recall," he said, "you are the fellow who assured everyone that the Arkham breakout was a hoax. I see now that you have engaged in a conspiracy to hide the truth from the public. It was a dangerous risk, one I cannot commend you for. Did you think the Joker would stay in hiding forever? That he wouldn't somehow risk your precious career? Because of your political maneuverings, a lunatic has been running free in this city for days! Unhindered! And certainly plotting to cause harm. Because of you, my employer has been missing for an entire day!"

"But this isn't my fault!" Garcia yelped back. "It was Gordon! And Huerta! They promised me they could get the Joker…"

Alfred settled back into the chair, wiping his eyes exhaustedly. He let Garcia whine. Both of them knew he was saying nothing of true importance, anyway… not even Bruce Wayne himself could stop the Mayor's fall from grace. Councilman Barnes had survived, and when election season rolled around he would spin himself into the hero who tried to rescue Ambassador Giedre, while Garcia would be the Mayor who let the Joker escape. It would be a landslide. A complete and utter disaster: for Gotham, and most especially for Batman. But there was nothing Alfred could do, and deep down both men knew it.

Garcia had just started winding up, however, when the door opened and a middle-aged woman that Alfred assumed to be the mayor's secretary entered. She fidgeted, looking exceptionally nervous—he would too, if his employer had been Garcia, let alone in such a mood—but she tried to interrupt,

"Ah… umm, sir…"

The Mayor's rant did not slow. Alfred tiredly looked at his watch. "12:01" winked up at him, and he nearly groaned.

He wanted to go back to Wayne Manor. To his bed? No… to his armchair. The one that was in the same room as the entrance to the bat-cave. Maybe if he waited there long enough, Master Bruce would come through the bookshelf, as always. When Alfred asked him how his night was, the young man could grin and say, _Not too bad, caught the Joker, saved the girl, Gotham, and myself from certain death… I think I'll hit the bed, now. G'nite_.

So flippant. So like Master Bruce. Like the boy who he once knew so well, that he could even tell what the child would do in any situation before the boy knew himself. Never, not even the time when Bruce had disappeared off the face of the map, had Alfred so desired to hear his voice, see his smile… to just know that he was all right.

"Sir," the secretary pleaded, this time louder. "_Sir—"_

"What?" Garcia snapped irritably, now certain that he could not change Alfred's mind and already beginning to accept this. He was done for.

"T-the television. You've g-got to see…"

She trailed off, and suddenly Alfred's dread stabbed sharply at his heart. Had they finally found Master Bruce's body in the rubble of Barnes' home? Was some reporter reading off the first of his obituaries right now? The butler was frozen in his seat.

For once Garcia was proactive. Seizing the controller, he turned the television set on once more.

Alfred had to bite back a cry. The young face he'd so hoped to see all day was on the screen, looking quite bewildered at that moment, but suddenly he didn't want to see Master Bruce anymore. Not if it meant seeing him like this.

Yet the nightmarish scene did not stop; instead the view of the camera zoomed out, revealing the city's prince to be handcuffed to a chair. There was no mistaking the painted face of the man standing behind him, with two gloved hands placed on his shoulders.

"Good _morning_, Gotham—today, we…hm_mmn_… Today, we have a little _diversion_ from our pathetic, ordinary little _lives…_" the purple-clothed figure intoned, gravity and decorum coloring his voice. Only after a brief, weighty pause did the red lips lapse into a grin. "Today, we all learn to have… _fun_."

**000 . d . da . dar . dark . dark k . dark kn . dark kni . dark knig . dark knigh . dark knight . 000**

_Friday, 12:02 A.M._

Colman Reese didn't stay out past dark for myriad reasons. Having nearly died around seven months ago—being shot at by a cop, even—he figured that he'd had enough excitement for the rest of his life. Thoughts of blackmailing anyone were long removed from his head. He was a much calmer and more considerate man, he believed.

So, as he stumbled back to his apartment, he reflected on how nice it was to have an off-day. His girlfriend had taken him out for a few drinks, and he'd stayed up way past his bedtime.

Ah, well. Time to start winding down. In order to help the process, he turned on the television. And, if it had been in the least bit capable, his jaw would have immediately hit the floor.

There sat someone who was present on the cable every day—someone he knew relatively well, considering that it was his boss. But usually this man's activities were too frivolous to feature on the late evening news. Indeed, this didn't even look like a legitimate news station, but a home video of sorts. Reese's confusion quickly melted away, however, and his mouth went dry when he saw the monster standing behind the seated man.

For, unlike all the other people of Gotham, Reese knew one _tiny_ little secret…

"Damn," he whispered. "If the Joker's got Batman, _who_ is going to get the Joker?"

**000 Author's Note 000**

Soooo… if you can't tell, the rest of the story will be a mixed bag of what's happening to Bruce and what's simultaneously going on in the outside world… at least, this will continue as long as Bruce is in the Joker's custody. How, when, where, and why these two threads might connect, well—that's the rest of the plot. :)

Ah, sorry, I was also going to add more about the relationship between Alfred and Bruce, to try to cement that a bit better, but it was either post this now, or a month from now, and I decided on now. So this would be the first chapter I would re-write if I ever edited this. Or maybe I'll just add that stuff in a future chapter. I dunno.

But…yikes. I checked the page count of this thing, and it's at over 200 pages in Microsoft Word. I'm practically writing a book. And this will (if I can just keep it up) be even longer… I'm not even halfway done! Waaah! Just you wait, this will end up being 1,000 pages or something. It will scare silly everyone who sees the word-count. I know I said around 40 chapters, but as of now I'm only like a quarter-to-a-third in. If _another _inspiration hits… wow. Right now I seem to just be learning stamina. This is good for me, I think.

I've been feeling down. I have a bunch of scenes planned, but I have to wait to get to them at the right moments. Please press the review button and tell me whatever sort of theories or suspicions you may have on how this plot is going. I'm always worrying that I've not communicated what I want to get across… ah, well…

May the clown and bat (take your pick, gals) be with my wonderful reviewers: Haladflire65, fluffyfg, creative input, practice, Mickerayla, RedNex, Heir to the World, CountryPixie, Serenaturner, Sinkme, & almost funny. Y'all know how to make an author smile.

Hope everyone has been doing well at school. :)


	21. Shakes

**IF THE FOUNDATIONS BE DESTROYED, WHAT CAN THE RIGHTEOUS DO?**

I don't own Batman. DC Comics does.

Please note that violence will occur in this story, and that less offensive words like "damn" will be used, but more offensive words will be "asterisked" out. Some sexuality will occur but never anything explicit. As of now this story is rated "T"—if any readers feel the rating needs to be raised, please contact me accordingly and it will be.

**Chapter Twenty-One: Shakes**

_Thursday, 5:54 P.M. (Previously)_

_The teenager was wearing a plaid shirt, knee-length jeans, and had slightly oily dirty-blonde hair, which was wavy and disorderly, as if it could not decide whether it wanted to be straight or in tight little curls. One of his feet was missing a shoe. Quietly and inconspicuously, scrunched up and hunched forwards, he sat at the very edge of the bench's corner, his elbows on his knees and his hands crossed in a guarded position. His shape made Bruce uncomfortably recall how Rachel's pet cat looked when she spotted a mouse. The boy also felt slightly unnerved when he met the stranger's sharp brown eyes, which were locked on his face, almost as if studying him. Still, the teen made no movement, threatening or otherwise._

_Somehow, though, Bruce thought he recognized an emotion in the stranger's brown eyes. Curiosity. The same feeling that had caused the boy to look out in the first place. For a moment the two males regarded one another, saying nothing, but each observing the other as if there were nothing else of interest in the whole wide world._

"_Hey, Rachel," Bruce said at last. "There's somebody out here..."_

"Who?" the girl responded, though her voice was high-pitched with fear. Bruce, for his part, wasn't sure whether there was anything to be afraid of or not. After all, the teenager didn't really _look_ threatening.

"Some guy," was all the boy said. Focusing his attention back to the stranger, he heard Rachel squeak,

"Oh, Bruce, just shut the door. Shut the door…"

"_No_," he told her, defiantly. She wasn't going to tell him what to do—and besides, now he had his interest piqued. On the bench, the blonde teenager had an appearance of slight amusement at the children's exchange, but his face was not overly expressive. His features were dominated by a bored look… actually, it seemed more like he was just tired. Yet, despite his exhaustion, his relentless, mud-colored eyes never left Bruce's face. The steady gaze was actually somewhat disconcerting to the child—but this only served to make the stranger more fascinating.

"I'll go get Mr. Alfred," Rachel threatened. Bruce snorted. That was her answer to everything. And Mr. Alfred always took her side, too. It just wasn't fair…

"Go on then, you stupid girl," he declared. "I'm not scared. You're just a dumb 'fraidy-cat."

Rachel gasped. Something contained within the sound told Bruce had he'd gone a bit too far. When he craned his head to see what she was doing, all he caught sight of was the view of her running back up the hill. Her head was bowed—was she… crying?

Suddenly he felt very dirty—not on the outside, where his clothes were only somewhat ruffled—but rather on the inside. He was still too young to recognize guilt, though he knew this gut feeling was something very bad.

"Not very smooth."

The words were very soft, but it was so quiet without Rachel nagging behind him that Bruce heard them, anyway. On the bench the teenager's eyes were flickering with something approaching disapproval, but at the same time somehow the emotion just couldn't seem to come through. Perhaps this was because it required too much energy from him to feel.

"What?" Bruce asked. If his mother had heard him being so rude, she would have given him a stern talking-to. You weren't supposed to say 'what?'—you were supposed to say, 'pardon?' or 'excuse me?' 'What' was very rude.

But the stranger didn't seem to mind. He just snorted. "I said, 'not very smooth,' kid. You don't treat girls that way if you want them to like you."

Bruce stared at the stranger. Rachel had always been very annoying, wanting to play dolls and house, running out in the garden and daring him to catch her. She always won, too.

"Why would I want her to like me?" he asked, scrunching up his face. "Girls _kiss_ guys that they like."

He'd learned this little fact from Rachel's favorite movie, The Little Mermaid_, _which she had once forced him to watch. After that he'd _vowed_ (his father had taught him that word) that he'd never watch one of her movies ever again. Like every other boy his age, Bruce hated sappy stuff.

"So?" was the teen's reaction, as if kissing girls was a given.

"So that's gross," Bruce informed him.

"Ah, well, you'll change your mind later," was all the teenager drawled, kicking at the dusty sidewalk with his one shoe. Bruce's eyes were drawn to the movement, then to the stranger's other foot, which was clothed only with a sock.

"What happened to your sneaker?" the boy asked, opening the door a little wider so he could fit through it. The stranger's foot stopped kicking.

"None of your business, kid."

"But—" Bruce began, ready to whine that he _really, really_ wanted to know—in fact, he found this stranger to be so interesting that he wanted to know _everything _about him—but then the teenager snarled,

"Just _drop_ it."

There was an undercurrent of anger in the phrase, which made Bruce fall silent immediately. Nobody ever really talked to him that way. They often were "ex-as-per-a-ted" (_that_ was a word that Mr. Alfred had taught him), but never angry. This confused him. Was something wrong with this stranger?

"Hey, are you okay?" Bruce asked, inching closer, before finally working up his courage to cross the road. He made a point of looking both ways beforehand—just as his mother always insisted. The teen's reaction to the boy's approach was to settle his face into a guarded expression.

"Do I _look_ okay?"

Being closer, Bruce began to notice other things about his companion's appearance: the stranger's hair was damp, his knees and elbows scraped-looking, with the cuts fresh, as if he had been scrambling on all fours over rocks or other rough objects. There was a small fleck of red in the corner of his lip—Bruce watched, utterly fascinated, as the teen paused and stuck his head to the side, spitting out what should have been clear and foamy saliva, but which instead was a crimson spurt of blood.

"Are you hurt?" the boy asked, earnestly, before adding, "My dad's a doctor. He could help."

Bruce believed his father could fix anything. However, it was obvious to the boy that the stranger did not believe likewise, for the teenager snorted again.

"'M fine," he muttered, bowing his head so Bruce couldn't see his face. "It's none of your business."

"Oh. Okay," replied the Wayne heir, settling himself down on the opposite side of the bench. The other occupant glanced toward him almost lazily.

"What'dya want, kid?"

"I dunno," Bruce replied, honestly. "I just never met someone who lived out here before."

"Well, I've never seen a hoity-toity rich kid, neither, 'cept on… ah, TV."

In Bruce's opinion, "hoity-toity" did not sound like a nice word.

"Hey, we're okay!" he complained, automatically defending himself and everyone he knew. "We know how to laugh!"

Mr. Alfred had once told the boy that there was nothing wrong with being rich, so long as you didn't think yourself to be the best of the best, or even a little bit the best. If you still knew how to laugh at yourself, he claimed, then you weren't just rich in money (which didn't matter much)—you were "rich in the heart," which was part of what made life worth living. Bruce's father had once told him that he only ever made friends with people "rich in the heart"—so the boy could honestly say that he knew many rich people who knew how to laugh.

But the teenager's response to Bruce's statement was only a cruel, cold snort of derision. "Yeah, kid. That makes y'all bloomin' saints."

The stranger's flippant attitude only served to offend the child further.

"What's your problem?" the boy asked, scrunching his nose again. "Why are you so serious?"

"_Serious_"—now, _that_ was a word his mother had taught him…

No sooner had his childhood self let that word slip, however, than a sharp jab in his ribs snapped Bruce Wayne's eyes open. After a brief second of disorientation, the first thing he noticed was that he was still in the underground storeroom, sitting against Giedre's door, but that somehow in his sleep he had rolled over on his side. The second thing that entered his thoughts was the form looming over him—with a painted smirk on its face.

For an exceptionally wild moment he had the sudden notion that his dream had been a tiny snippet of reality—that somehow the monster standing before him had known him while he had been a mere child. Not only that, but for some strange reason Bruce also had the impression that the clown was coming to collect on something he was owed, which had recently come due…

But, Bruce's rational side griped, this feeling made no sense. Even in his dream-memory, there was nothing to suggest that he owed the strange teenager anything—and, obviously, the teenager's resemblance to the Joker was merely his mind's way of playing around with information. Viewing the monster's face up this close made it seem as if his face was quite similar to the teen in his dream, but Bruce figured that this was simply his subconscious playing tricks on him.

"What's so funny?" he blurted out.

Once again his mouth had decided to take initiative. Inwardly, Bruce cursed himself with every word he knew—and his face must have somehow shown this, for the Joker burst into low giggles.

"Nothing, Brucie, just _nothing_—except you decided to have a go at me," the clown answered.

"Uh…"

The billionaire didn't quite know what to say. "_Have a go_"? What did that mean? Had he attempted to lash out at the Joker in his sleep somehow?

"Um… sorry?" this had to be the third time, he supposed, that he'd apologized to his worst enemy and most terrible nightmare—but then again, who was keeping count?

Immediately the clown's face turned grim.

"You _kicked_ at me, and all you can say is 'sorry'?" he demanded, and the sudden dark tone warned the prisoner of his captor's hidden ire.

"Uhhhh… yeah?" Bruce winced. If he had possessed the time, he surely would have been able to come up with a better answer than that. One that was more polite, more convenient, more likely to save his life…

Or perhaps not, for once again the Joker's face was abruptly dominated by a smile. "_Wonderful_, Brucie. Such a spirit in you, you're positively.…aha, _plucky_. Like a true little tiger… _Oh,_ but you'll grow up so _fast…_ soon you'll be off to _school_, and then _college_, and I'll be wondering, where did all the years go? Ahh_hh_….this, uh, _parenting_ stuff is _damned_ hard."

A wistful look was on the clown's face, but Bruce had the sneaking suspicion that it was entirely for show. He didn't voice this notion aloud, however. The Joker must have his little games. Abruptly, the monster's face returned to something resembling a sedate gaze, and he made a quick jerking motion with his hands.

"Well, up, up, _up!_ You must be hungry. Starving. _Famished_. Come along, now, I simply _can't_ have you waking me tonight asking about a midnight snack… and you haven't been, aha, _bad_ enough to be sent to bed without dinner. Come _along_, now!"

Bruce tried not to let utter confusion show on his features. The clown's rapid mood swings were leaving him floundering for a foothold, wondering how to react at any given jab. Was this a tactic of the Joker's? As he stood up, brushing the dirt off his crumpled tux, he caught sight of the small smirk that the monster quickly tried to mask.

Yes, Bruce decided—whether or not the mood swings were a legitimate part of it, the clown certainly was up to _something…_

"Y'_know,_ Brucie," drawled the clown, "I never got to give you the… uh, _tour_ of the place."

In Bruce's mind, this didn't matter overmuch. The storeroom had only three doors, so it was not overly complicated, and he really didn't expect the Joker to be that hospitable, anyway.

He was dwelling on this when said monster suddenly leaned forwards, invading his personal space, to hiss,

"For _that_… I think I better say… 'Um… _sorry?'_"

Despite Bruce's frayed nerves at his captor's sudden closeness, his mind was still coherent enough to strongly object. The clown was mimicking him. Mocking him—putting on an earnest, confused look on his painted face, even imitating the way the billionaire had phrased his last apology as more of a question.

Bruce was outraged.

But he refused to let this show.

Nevertheless, as the Joker winked at him, the prisoner had the distinct impression that the clown knew what violent thoughts he was currently burying deep within his psyche. But no… Bruce told himself, he mustn't start thinking like that. The Joker could not read minds. The Joker _could not_ read minds. Maybe if he repeated this enough to himself, he'd finally stop being so jittery around the clown…

At the same time, a little warning bell sounded in the back of the billionaire's mind. The monster was not doing anything overly embarrassing—this mimicry was actually not unlike some sort of friendly jab, the sort of thing Alfred would do when Bruce was having a bad day, just to cheer the younger man up. That he was reacting so strongly to it warned him to keep his temper in check. He obviously was a little more stressed at the moment than he wanted to admit.

Taking a deep breath, Bruce forced himself to calm down. Anger would not help him in this situation. Here he was Bruce Wayne. Batman used anger—Bruce Wayne used whining and self-pity. They must be polar opposites. Especially in the here-and-now.

Already the Joker had turned away, walking with a definite spring to his step, calling,

"So come _along_, Brucie m'boy, and I'll show you around! Chop, chop!"

Reluctantly, Bruce followed, although his footsteps were far less eager and carefree. They stopped in the center of the large storeroom, with the billionaire making certain that he was a good two to three strides away from the clown. From their position they could see the entire underground enclosure. The dim lighting and cracked cinder-block walls made the place look surreal—like the sort of thing one would see in a low-budget horror film.

"This…" the clown said, dramatically, raising his arms in a theatrical gesture, "Is _Hell_."

"Pleasant," murmured the playboy.

"_Oh_, I'm glad you think so," continued the Joker. "I personally was considering… sprucing _up_ the place… for _our fair lady_, of course… but I just never got around to it. Always, aha… always _some_thing on my mind… and there's only _so much _space up there, you see."

By "lady," Bruce guessed the monster meant Ambassador Giedre.

"I don't think she cares," he responded, rather hesitantly. In all honesty, he wasn't sure how to play the role of the bumbling billionaire in this situation. Should he be cringing and begging for mercy, or pretending to act under the delusion that nothing could harm him? No matter what performing skills he had, Bruce didn't think he could stomach option number one—but whether he could get away with option number two was rather ambiguous.

"You think so?" the clown asked, brightening up. "What a _nice_ thing to _say!_"

"I was being sarcastic."

Once again, Bruce cursed his mouth. He was an idiot—truly, a full, complete, utter idiot.

But, instead of getting angry—like any normal, rational person would have done, Bruce supposed—the Joker clapped his hands a few times, almost applauding, before winking at the billionaire once more.

"I know, Brucie, I know. Ah, _honesty_, so very refreshing…"

As the clown headed for the third door, motioning for Bruce to follow, he fairly purred, "I _knew_ there was some reason I let you live last night…thank you _so much_ for reminding me…"

Bruce decided not to ask what this meant.

**000 . d . da . dar . dark . dark k . dark kn . dark kni . dark knig . dark knigh . dark knight . 000**

_Thursday, 6:05 P.M. (Previously)_

Door number three of the underground storeroom led to a space much larger than the others, and Bruce spent a few moments wracking his brain in an attempt to decipher what the room was once used for. It was not a closet, as it was far too large—but he really couldn't imagine what else it could have been.

Whatever it was, however, it had certainly been altered. A plain dinner table dominated the central space, surrounded by a peculiar assortment of various types of chairs, while a filthy-looking couch leaned against the far wall. Bookshelves full of odds and ends—but no books, of course—lined the room.

The Joker settled himself into one of the chairs, motioning for Bruce to take one as well. Cautiously the billionaire circumvented the table, with every intent of choosing a seat on the other side, using the wooden surface as a barrier between him and his tormentor. If the clown had any objections to this, he didn't voice them.

"So…" the monster spoke up, once Bruce was seated, "How is your day so far?"

An absurd question, Bruce wanted to say, but for once he kept his tongue in check.

"All right, I suppose," he answered.

"Make any new friends?"

_No_. This was the obvious reply, in condensed form. The longer version would have been: _No, because you're all a bunch of psychopaths who've kidnapped me and probably will kill me sooner or later, and I don't have the policy of befriending my murderers_. However, not even Bruce's tongue was daft enough to say that.

"Not really."

This was the best he could come up with, which both satisfied him and—hopefully—the monster sitting across from him.

"Dear, _oh_, dear, we'll have to do something about that," Joker shook his head. "Did anyone… ah, make you feel… _unwelcome?_"

Bruce wasn't quite sure where the clown was going with this line of questioning—then again, he wasn't quite sure where the clown was ever going with anything. Doubtless this would only lead to yet another game. Regardless, he didn't want to play.

"Not really," he said once more, and when the Joker quirked an eyebrow an his repeated statement, without thinking he hurriedly added, "Uh… Slink, maybe."

A burst of laughter came from the maniac.

"Slink! Ah… my good ol' luverly roommate, tells such _interesting_ stories…"

The Joker dissolved into derisive chuckles, but Bruce remained silent. He just didn't want to think any more. A covert glance at his watch revealed that it was near sunset—normally this was when he was most active, when he had caught enough rest and catnaps during the daylight hours to truly "wake up" for his nighttime activities… yet now, despite his nap, he still felt tired. Perhaps it was the Joker's proximity—the clown's presence was exhausting. Indeed the monster was like a giant black hole, sucking away at everyone's energy around him, sapping away Bruce's strength and resolve to do anything, anything at all, much less to escape…

How had this happened? Wasn't he just supposed to be concerned on how to fire Temperance? What about Barnes' political maneuvering? Silhouette's annoying interruptions? The twins' giggling as he and Marishka shared the same soup bowl…

Only then did he noticed that there were two plastic cups on the table, each filled with what looked like very putrid water—which could have easily come from the tap in the storage area meant for a garden hose, and for all Bruce knew probably did. The Joker casually reached forwards and pushed one toward the billionaire: who, seeing the clown's hand enter his proximity, flinched at the sudden movement. His recoil did not go unnoticed.

Before, the monster had only been giggling—now, he rocked his chair back on two legs, laughing madly, as if Bruce had just told him about the time Marishka's hair had nearly been set on fire.

"Brucie, Brucie, _Brucie_—don't worry, a_ha_, daddy's not mad at yoo_oooou!_ Just drink up and, ah, _maybe_ if you're a good boy, we'll, uh, break out the whiskey!"

Abruptly the clown leaned forward, but Bruce refused to allow himself to flinch again. His stoic silence brought a smirk to the Joker's face.

"Uh," the maniac whispered, "I, uh, _know_ you're not twenty-one, but we'll just keep that quiet from _mommy_, okay? What she doesn't know won't hurt her."

Bruce's look of incredulity only spurred the clown to begin laughing again.

Laughter, laughter… everything seemed to be funny around here. Somehow Bruce found himself wondering why he didn't get any of the jokes. Such a bizarre line of pondering… he groaned, putting his head into his hands. A split second later he was extremely grateful that he had done so, for his elbow gave such a vicious throb that he simply had to bite his lip. _'Keep calm,'_ he told himself. _'Mustn't let him know anything…'_

"Ah… _Brucie_, I was just _talking_, aren't you, uh, _paying attention…_ like a good little boy?"

The Joker pounded the table, suddenly, as if to accentuate his question: the billionaire had rested both elbows on it, and the sudden jolt caused such a twinge of agony to shoot up his arm that he very nearly cried out. As it was he managed to keep his expression behind the shields of his hands—he bit his inner cheek, tasting blood.

Wearily, the prisoner dropped his hands, once he felt confident enough that he had his face under control. For some reason, he felt sick. Nausea from his injury's sudden aggravation, he supposed—that, combined with the coppery taste in his mouth, and the overwhelming presence of the monster before him, would probably be enough to make anyone's stomach jittery.

Instead of making further comments, however, the Joker merely chuckled idly, though the sound was somewhat muffled when he lifted his plastic cup to his lips, sucking in large, noisy gulps in-between his chortles. Bruce lowered his eyes in near-defeat, trying to think of something else other than the maniac before him.

"_Huuuurrrrgg..._"

The almost inhuman groan caused Bruce to glance up sharply. He was just in time to see the Joker spit out a mouthful of his drink, his gloved fist clenching so tightly that the plastic cup in his grip snapped into bits and showed him with the yellowy water. What surprised the billionaire most of all, however, was the unusual look of pain that had clouded over the clown's face—it looked oddly out of place, as if nothing like it ever truly belonged there. Without a word the monster compulsively wrapped his arms tight around his lithe form.

The next moment the Joker has slipped from his chair, almost as if he had dived toward the ground. By managing to twist his body, Bruce saw that the clown lay on the floor now, and it was not difficult to tell why: his whole body was wracked by jerking, chronic seizures—uncontrollable and grotesque movements shuddered through him, although the monster tucked himself into a tight ball. White knuckles showed how tightly he was holding on to his shoulders, as if for dear life. The clown's face was scrunched up in a look of undeniable agony, his eyes squeezed shut and his lips pressed together so tightly that they would have been practically invisible, were it not for the red paint circling them. A bead of sweat descended from his temple, smearing the white mask and revealing pale skin underneath.

Yet, as quickly as they had started, the trembling stopped. The monster lay still, then—deathly still, and the only sign he was still alive was the erratic heaving of his chest, rising and plunging madly, desperate for air. He let out a soft, strained grunt—the only noise, aside from his groan at the start, that he had made throughout the entire event.

Bruce decided not to drink the water.

It seemed like hours, but in truth must have been only a few minutes later, when the Joker finally uncurled from his self-imposed cocoon and slowly climbed back up into his seat. He still trembled slightly, though this seemed to be more from exhaustion than a part of the compulsive thrashing he'd been doing on the floor.

"Now that… _that's_ over for at least a little while… could you remind me," he said, calmly, "To _kill_ Varnham and Quinzel? Not to mention _Auguste_..."

Bruce didn't trust himself to answer. Which was just as well, for the Joker proceeded to ignore him. The billionaire wondered: was the clown… _embarrassed?_ Embarrassment was such a human emotion—if Bruce been told a week ago that he'd be speculating whether the Joker experienced it, he would have laughed. As things were, however, the thought that the monster before him could have such a humanizing trait only made Bruce uneasy. It was so much easier to think of his captor as an inhuman monster… the more time he spent in this prison, it seemed like the more the clown surprised and unsettled him.

'_What the hell just happened?'_ the billionaire wondered. _'Did he really just… am I imagining things? Is this part of some nightmare…?'_

All his musings were interrupted by Slink's entrance.

"Auguste is back," the gray man stated, his voice such a soft hiss that Bruce nearly missed the fact that he was speaking at all.

Immediately the clown's sharp brown eyes snapped back into focus. There was such a look of such intensity in them that it made Bruce want to squirm in his seat. Surely this did not bode well.

"Hmmm, well, he needs to… ah, _expect_ something from me. He's—he's… _Ten. Minutes. Late._" The maniac fairly snarled, making Bruce wince. Fortunately the billionaire was ignored, seeing as the clown had all his attention on the whip-like gray man.

"He's already said something to that effect," Slink replied.

This seemed to be pleasant news—for the Joker, anyway, because the clown's countenance brightened. "_Has_ he, now? Well, then, he's obviously going to have to, ah, _wait_ for it. Let him _stew_. Let him think, what if he'd just been here _ten minutes ago_…"

The monster trailed off, and when Bruce chanced a glance up he found his captor was gazing idly at his hands, a small frown on his painted face, almost delicately tracing his fingers along the tendons in his palms. Both hands were still trembling slightly. Just as Bruce was about to glance back down, however, the brown orbs flickered up, catching sight of the billionaire's face.

Immediately Bruce looked away. Not quite fast enough. He felt… burned. There had been a familiar emotion in there. An emotion he himself had been experiencing far too much of recently.

Fear.

'_So. Even lunatics can be afraid,'_ Bruce thought, quietly. He could almost hear his father explaining:

_You know why they attacked you, right? Because they were afraid of you. All creatures feel fear… especially the scary ones._

"Bruc-_ie_," intoned a light-hearted voice, almost sing-song. Cautiously, the billionaire glanced up.

"Do you know… how to keep secrets?" asked the Joker, his eyes having hardened to such sharp points that Bruce felt they were somehow drilling into his brain.

"Yeah," he replied, his mouth dry.

"Do you know… _when_ to keep secrets?"

Although he didn't dare take his gaze off the clown's own eyes, Bruce saw movement in the periphery of his vision—doubtless, the madman had just unsheathed a knife.

"Y-yeah." Once again he cursed himself, that he could not keep his voice from cracking. There was another movement—had the knife just been put away?

"Good. I'm, ah, _glad_… we had this little talk." Red lips twisted into a cruel smile. "You're so very, verrryy_yyy_ _entertaining_… It'd be a shame if you went all _serious."_

**000 Author's Note 000**

This is a "previously" chapter, so this means that this is part of the events leading up to the end of the last installment.

Thanks to reviewers, you know how to make an author feel special: Deborah (Lucius WILL feature), RedNex (you get a free kiss from Brucie ;D), PeanutButter (I really don't know how to pronounce "Giedre"... that's one way), Vanafindiel (love your sense of humor), SpringFlower (I'm so flattered... /blushes uncontrollably/... thanx for reading), immortalisforever, Padfoot n' Moony, CountryPixie (ha ha... two old men and a total wuss attacking the Joker's hideout... :)), Mickerayla, Haladflire65, fluffyfg, ColtDancer (keep your eyes on Temperance and Giedre...for opposite reasons. Mwahahaa!), Lady Padfoot21, Heir to the World, & almost Funny.

I'm glad nobody's concerned over this story being long. Makes me feel better about the marathon of writing it. :)


	22. Lurking

**IF THE FOUNDATIONS BE DESTROYED, WHAT CAN THE RIGHTEOUS DO?**

I don't own Batman. DC Comics does.

Please note that violence will occur in this story, and that less offensive words like "damn" will be used, but more offensive words will be "asterisked" out. Some sexuality will occur but never anything explicit. As of now this story is rated "T"—if any readers feel the rating needs to be raised, please contact me accordingly and it will be.

**Chapter Twenty-Two: Lurking**

_Thursday, 11:32 P.M. (Previously)_

Bruce's watch glowed an ethereal blue in the dark room. Nothing, save for Ambassador Giedre's slightly-labored breathing, could be heard. Outside in the main room, all was quiet.

It was unnerving. There had been noise out there for most of the day. Now, all of a sudden, everything was silent—and he had no idea why.

In all honesty, though, Bruce was getting tired of this feeling. Nervousness, like a giant spider, had been winding a tight and tangled web around him all day long, and he felt as drained as if the spider had just finished sucking him dry. If he focused, he could even imagine the spider's face, and the blood-red grin on its lips.

He shuddered, but it was only a small tremor—the exhaustion pressing down on him would not allow him much energy. Allowing his head to loll back on the bedspread, closing his weary eyes, he permitted himself one moment of weakness. Muscles relaxed, and an almost audible sigh came from the release. His elbow throbbed, but he ignored it. Maybe he could just stay here, floating on nothingness, forever.

But no. He had to get up.

How odd it was, he mused—that he should be rising at this hour, not as Batman, but as Bruce Wayne. This day had been strange in many respects.

It was difficult, standing up while trying not to disturb the bed's other occupant. Bruce had never had any experience with this sort of thing—the only time he'd ever shared a bed had been when he was a young child, troubled by a nightmares, and the goal then had been to _wake_ his parents, not let them sleep. And while "playboy Wayne" had a reputation in the media, no woman had ever truly spent the night with him. This was not only for moral reasons—practicality in its purest sense demanded it. No amount of excuses could explain scars left from bullet holes and knife wounds. There was no shooting or stabbing involved in spelunking and rock climbing.

No surprise, then, that when he finally gained his feet and turned around to glance cautiously at Giedre, her open eyes were watching him. What small amount of light there was from his watch only made them into glittery pinpricks.

Before she could ask, he gently told her, "I'll be back. Just going to… have a look around, that's all."

As he edged toward the door, he thought he heard her murmur, "_Be careful."_

'_Be careful, indeed,'_ his mind warned him. He had no idea what to expect.

Whatever he had been anticipating, however, didn't appear: when he cracked the door open to peer outside, the main room was entirely empty. No van was parked, no chairs were occupied, and nobody was standing around. Little wonder the place was so quiet—there was nobody here.

Yet it was not so much the abandoned state of the warehouse that caught Bruce's eye. Instead, one particular aspect made itself known immediately.

The garage door was open.

Most people would have been wary of that entrance: wide and black, like a cavernous mouth, it looked all-too willing to swallow a traveler forever in darkness. But, suit or no suit, Bruce still had enough of Batman in him that this same darkness drew him like a bee toward honey. As he approached a sudden calm seemed almost to fall over him—here, in the black shadow before him, was his element. His true home. Batman, inside him, was never afraid of the dark.

At the same time a little warning bell began to sound in his mind. He recalled what the Joker had told him, while the clown had loosed his handcuffs…

"_Excellent, Brucie, just _peachy._ Just for that, you can go anywhere you want. I just don't recommend leaving the, _uh..._ main rooms. Who knows what's _prowling_ out there in the darkness? Wouldn't want Gotham's Prince to be hurt, would we? Can I truly trust you to _stick around?_"_

Could he, indeed? Bruce certainly hoped not.

Was there something out there, in the dark tunnel? The clown had made it sound like some monster was waiting to foil any escape attempt. But what could possibly be down here, underground, that could "hurt" Gotham's Prince? Some goon? An animal of some sort?

Bruce had a sudden vision of the Joker being the ringleader of a circus, who had trained dancing bears to gobble up any audience members causing a ruckus. No, not bears: monsters, terrible beasts that were just like their master in temperament. Things that went bump in the night.

He shook his head. Now was not the time to be dwelling in ridiculous notions like this. Bruce didn't believe in boogey men. The devil—now _that_ he could stomach, but somehow he didn't suppose that Satan would be lurking out there, waiting for him. Even if Lucifer was, the billionaire had a sneaking suspicion that the Joker's presence would have scared the king of Hell away long before now.

Even though he couldn't actually escape—he didn't dare leave the Ambassador behind, and she was certainly in no condition to be moved—neither could he deny that this was the perfect opportunity. He'd go have a look. A quick one, in any case. There was nobody else here. Nobody would know he was even missing. And perhaps he'd actually discover something, like a street sign or such, to tell him where they were. Investigating ahead of time could only make it easier to escape, when he and the Ambassador finally did make a break for it.

As eager as he was to do this, however, he still was wary. Why would the Joker go to all this trouble in kidnapping him and Giedre only to provide them with the perfect exit? Surely the clown had to know that Bruce was not going to simply remain here, docilely, when presented with the perfect means to escape.

Perhaps this was a trap. Maybe there was someone hiding, watching, waiting for him to make a move toward the open door. A setup; yet another way the Joker could torment him, and a perfect excuse to do something terrible to him for his "disobedience."

Yet a more thorough examination of the room revealed that nobody was keeping guard. Nobody under the table, nor behind each of the remaining two doors, and there was precious little else to hide behind. No cameras up on the walls or roof—that he could see, anyway, and he doubted the clown had the technology or the desire to install miniature ones.

The place was genuinely empty. Strange.

Well, Bruce wasn't stupid. He _was_ indeed going to leave, to see what could be found out there in the darkness, if only to prove to himself that he couldn't be intimidated this easily. However, he wasn't going to go out unarmed. It was one thing to be confident while wearing the Batman suit, which protected him like steel armor on a knight, but it was quite another to walk alone in the dark in only a messy tux.

During his first survey of the room, he'd spotted an old baseball bat lying, deceptively innocent, across the seat of a chair. Picking it up, he hefted the weight around a little, testing the balance and strength of the wooden implement. The thing was banged up, but still sturdy. On one side there was a large, purple-red stain that had soaked into the pine's fibers. He shuddered and tried not to think about why goons would have a sports implement in an underground room. It was easier to hold when he didn't think about the many various ways it could have been put to use, before reaching its current position in his hands.

The mouth of the garage door seemed to stretch wider as he approached it. As he drew nearer Bruce had a strange sense of having done this before—but where had he been in a similar situation? '_Rachel_,' he thought, '_when I was with Rachel, and that horrible door in the southwestern corner_.' Indeed, as he stepped close to the garage's maw, he felt something not unlike the same sensation that he had experienced as a little boy, coming upon a forbidden yet beckoning entrance. His father was going to be so _angry_ with him… well, the Joker was, anyway. If the clown ever found out.

Bruce paused at the garage door's frame. Suddenly he felt almost as if eyes were on him—if he turned around, he knew, he just _knew_, that he would see a pair of mud-colored orbs observing his every move. But dare he turn his back on the swamp of darkness before him? Who knew what was out there? Well, it was one or the other, one danger or the other, and the clown was more of a demon to him than the unknown. Hastily he glanced behind him—and the next moment chided himself, for there still was nobody present.

'_You really shouldn't work yourself up like that,'_ he told himself, _'You'll make yourself sick, being this edgy all the time...'_

Turning back to the darkness before him, Bruce peered out into the shadows. The dim lights of the storehouse streaked out from the entrance, before melding into total gloom some twenty feet away. A yellow arrow was painted on the asphalt, pointing in Bruce's direction—some sort of indicator, he supposed, though he didn't know of what. Taking a deep breath, half expecting the Joker to leap out of nowhere and declare him caught "red-handed," he stepped forward, his shadow leading the way. But gradually, as he moved on, the outline of his shadow grew fainter, fuzzier, until it melded with the darkness completely.

Black. Black was like a mask over his face—it was under his feet, at his fingertips, in his nose, ears, eyes, and mouth, pressing up against him from all sides; he was breathing it, feeling dizzy and lightheaded from its fumes. If he wasn't careful, he would trip, and fall into its depths forever. The asphalt underfoot didn't exist if he couldn't see it, right?

But Bruce's blue eyes were the same that were often under Batman's mask. Swiftly his pupils swiftly reverted to wide-open disks, drinking in what little light was available. Over the years his body had become acclimated to the dark. His feet know how to step without snagging on any unforeseen ledges; his balance was barely affected by the lack of proper vision. Soon enough Bruce found himself able to pick up on shapes in the abyss before him. He saw walls, a slight sheen on the floor from dampness, and a high ceiling. Yes, this certainly must have been an offshoot of one of Gotham's main underground tunnels.

In all, he must have gone twenty paces before a movement ahead caught his eye. Due to the lack of proper lighting, he couldn't see colors, merely outlines of dark shapes. He squinted, trying to see closer, but this didn't help. Was something up ahead, or not? His mind could be playing tricks on him in this shadowy space.

The baseball bat in his hands felt rough and abused, but as he lifted it, testing out its balance once again, it was still durable and strong. It gave him just enough confidence to take another step.

Then he heard the growl.

Bruce had always been a dog person: something about the fierce loyalty of a canine was heartwarming to him, along with their simple perky charm. Cats, even though Rachel had adored them, had never quite rubbed him the right way. They were too independent for his taste—if he was going to have a pet, he wanted one that would care when he came home, and this meant that felines, reptiles, and fish were not his fancy. Dogs, however—dogs he had a certain soft spot for.

Yet after facing the attack dogs of the mob bosses and the Joker, Bruce was beginning to question his dislike of cats. Sure, they were cold and aloof, but the worst they could do was hiss and bite… no housecat could equal the sheer ferocity of a mastiff.

As it was, he was currently standing in the dark, dressed in a tux and hefting a mere baseball bat, while a large, shadowy form coalesced from the surrounding blackness before him, seemingly out of nowhere. The only speck of color on the form was the eyes—hungry, glowing eyes, that reminded him of old horror movies of werewolves and vampires when he'd been a mere kid. The low growl coming from the creature grew louder, ending in a fanged snarl.

Bruce didn't deny it—his heart did indeed stop.

'_Wait for it,'_ he coached himself. His fingers were gripping the bat's handle so hard, he wouldn't be surprised if they were bruising themselves against the wood. He'd never played baseball, but he _had_ learned swordplay from Ra's al-Ghul, and that had to count for something.

There was just the slightest forewarning—the dog lowered its eyes for just a moment—before the beast launched itself at him. He was aware of the freezing air being stirred by its sudden movement, though the cold was suddenly replaced by hot, stinky breath.

Bruce swung. Hard.

Almost too late—if he hadn't known better, he would have thought that he'd felt the dog's teeth tug against his tux's sleeve. The baseball bat was in his left hand, of course, for his right was still impaired by his elbow, but this didn't stop him from putting all his force into the blow. Skidding backwards with an unearthly howl, the beast fell to the ground.

For a second it lay there. Just long enough for the billionaire to let his guard down—the prone dog let out a whimper, almost childlike in its tone, and suddenly Bruce felt extremely sorry for it. This was just an animal, after all. It was only doing as it had been taught. But when he was faced between the choice of him or the canine, he'd choose himself. After all, if given the chance, it most certainly would have killed him.

The next second this feeling had to be laid aside, as the beast was on its feet once more, hurling itself at him with a deep, throaty battle-cry. Again, he swung—though possessed by the throes of surprise, he actually hit it much sooner this time. Once more the dog lay flat on the pavement. Yet it did not whimper—this time it only growled, a low, gravelly sound. Bruce recognized the emotion. Rage.

With a bellow, the dog flung itself upwards, and while Bruce swung yet again he missed. The creature seemed to have adapted to his strategy—it leapt forward, then backward, the baseball bat missing it by mere inches. Before the billionaire could process this, it lunged forward again. By instinct, Bruce still managed to lash out—he must have hit it somewhere sensitive, for it screamed in pain and hate, and the terrible sound of gushing and dripping liquid hit Bruce's ears. Perhaps he'd hit it on the nose, or in the eye, and had ruptured the organ.

Whichever he had struck, the creature refused to stop. Snapping at the bat, each slap of its jaw sounding like the click of a gun, it charged forward and slammed into him. Bruce went down.

The only thing that saved him was his feet—while on his back, his legs were free to kick, and kick he did. This had the effect of hurling the dog beside him, where it lay snarling, struggling, and fairly howling in fury. He didn't let it regain its footing; instead, he rolled over on top of the animal, smothering it, using his larger size to an advantage.

Understandably, it didn't like this.

Bruce was nearly thrown as the beast underneath him began thrashing viciously. Worse—it had already begun wiggling over onto its side, where it could freely claw and tear at him with its paws. So, doing the only thing that he could think of, the billionaire managed to wrap one arm around the beast's throat: dropping the bat, with his free hand he pulled on his elbow, effectively creating a choke hold. The dog coughed, violently spewing out some unidentifiable liquid. He'd indeed hit it on the nose, some part of Bruce's mind decided.

This hurt like hell. The elbow he was holding was the injured one. If it hadn't been swollen before, it certainly would be now…

Not that he didn't _deserve_ the pain, of course... What he was doing to the dog was worse, far worse, than what he was doing to himself. He could feel the muscles of the canine's throat, the involuntary spasms, the jerking of the beast's ribcage, its lungs desperate for air that they couldn't receive… The animal was no longer trying to hurt him, Bruce realized, as the sound of scrabbling, desperate nails scratching at the pavement echoed in his ears. It was trying to escape, to flee, to get away, to just _live…_

'_Black out,'_ he thought, _'Just hurry up… hurry up and go unconscious, you stupid mutt…please, _please,_ just black out…'_

Yet—while this was what he'd wished for—when the dog finally went slack in his grip, an unidentifiable sense of panic began to build within him. _Ease up_, he fairly screamed at himself, _Ease up!_ He didn't want to kill it. Granted, the beast was not a human being. Bruce would not have thought twice if presented the choice between a dog's existence, and a person's—not even a thousand dogs for one person. But, in spite of everything… this dog, this mere animal, was still a life.

One that he didn't want to take.

Only then did he roll off the creature, allowing himself to lie on his back, prone on the damp asphalt. He permitted himself one moment to breathe. Just breathe, before turning over and checking the canine. The beast's neck felt like a wad of stringy rubber, bruised and abused. But, when he pressed his shaking hand to its underside, he could feel its heart thumping slowly, steadily.

Taking a deep breath, which sounded more akin to a gasp, he fell back to the pavement. It was easier to breathe, now. His stomach was not so twisted into knots. But his elbow… well, he didn't want to think about that. Too much pain… he couldn't focus on it, he didn't dare… it would be torn. Yes, that much was certain…

'_Get up,'_ some part of his mind whispered. Bruce didn't question or wonder why—he didn't disobey, either. Shoving with his one good arm, he turned over on his stomach, lying there for a moment. The ground underneath him was rough and damp, but cool. He was so tired. Maybe he could just lie here, if only for a little while…

'_Get up,'_ the back of his mind thought again, this time much more insistent. A groan escaped him—though he very much wanted to, Bruce knew better than to deny his instincts. They had saved his life too many times to be ignored.

Pushing his good limb under him, he rose to his knees, and attempted to stand. He staggered, fell. Lay still. Then, with a sigh of what could have been exasperation, tried again.

This time it worked. Bruce was on his feet, but barely. The baseball bat was nearby. Dare he bend over to pick it up? Would such an action cause him to fall flat on his face? He felt… drunk, almost. In the few times he'd overindulged with Marishka, this was exactly what it felt like… but why now? He was only tired, wasn't he? Surely the dog hadn't sapped this much strength from him. Granted, he'd been tired before, but this… this was borderline breakdown. All the emotions over the past day seemed to be coming at him, slamming against him all at once, with far greater force than the dog just had. He shuddered under the weight.

Perhaps the dog's attack had been a trigger, the billionaire decided, a trigger to remind him ever-so-potently of Batman's one rule, and how easy it was to break. Granted, it was a rule meant for people, but a slippery slope was not something he wished to find himself descending down. With that thought in mind he kneeled—carefully, so he wouldn't keel over in the process—and ran his fingers along the dog's head, over its eyes, its snout. Maybe he could help it, somehow. The wet nose was a fountain of blood.

No surprise there. Not really. He still winced and felt terrible about it. But he mustn't torment himself; this couldn't be helped...

That was when he first became aware of the sound. Something was softly pounding, as if from far off. It was the sound of running—hefty paws slapping the asphalt.

There were more.

Of course there were more! The Joker never seemed to do anything in moderation before, so why should the clown have started now? That monster might have dozens of guard dogs, prowling in the dark… perhaps the open garage door had been some sort of trap, or perhaps the clown had actually thought that Bruce would have obeyed his advice to stay in the main rooms—but regardless, it was obvious that Bruce wasn't leaving anytime soon. Not with these animals out for his blood.

The injured dog was left there. Surely its fellows wouldn't attack it—and even if they did, Bruce knew that staying here for its sake would spell death for himself. A sudden, fortunate burst of adrenaline shot through his veins. Beside the broken dog lay the baseball bat, bloodied and somewhat splintered: seizing it, Bruce took a brief second to take a deep breath, before rushing along, back toward the main rooms. Hopefully the canines were trained not to follow anyone in there. If not, he could always barricade himself in Giedre's room—that door seemed sturdy enough to ward off a few animals.

Despite the adrenaline, however, he was still remarkably slow. His exhaustion was like a lead weight, around his ankles, pulling and tugging him in the opposite direction—but, physically speaking, aside from his elbow nothing was actually wrong with him. It simply was a matter of willpower to keep moving—yet this was a battle he began to think he was losing. _This is emotional, not physical, and you_ can_ deal with this,_ he fairly wanted to yell at himself, _snap out of it!_ But somehow, without the mask over his face, it was hard to do so. No… it was impossible. Right now, at least.

The fact that dogs were naturally faster than humans didn't help either. One of them caught him—slamming roughly into him from behind, as he managed to near the light from the main room's garage door.

But before the animal could clamp down on the back of his neck, a shrill whistle sounded. The beast halted as if frozen to stone—the only hint that it was otherwise was a large, oozing droplet of saliva, which spattered itself all over Bruce's left ear. The canine's mouth was so close…

Yet it seemed well-trained. With only a minor amount of disappointment evident, the beast crawled off him and slunk back into the darkness. Bruce didn't move: he kept his face pressed against the concrete, as the sound of footsteps echoed toward him. They stopped just feet away.

_Rap, rap, rap rap rap-rap-rapraprap…_

A foot was tapping, with an increasing impatience. As if waiting for him to acknowledge its presence—but he didn't want to. Bruce realized that his fingers were clenching up, rigidly, his untrimmed fingernails digging ruthlessly into his hands. His palms were slick with sweat… he wanted to wipe them on his shirt, to get the gummy feeling off, but was afraid to move. So he just lay there, commending himself to God, in whom he believed in, and strangely enough also to fate—in which, oddly, he didn't. But now seemed as good a time as any to abdicate his personal responsibility for this situation.

The foot's tapping stopped.

Silence was eerie—more frightening than the tapping, too. Bruce had a sudden vision of the clown before him reaching down, knife in hand… he couldn't stop a shudder that rippled through his prone form. At last, steeling himself, he looked up.

In front of him was the Joker, hunched slightly, red lips pursed in a look of such innocent curiosity that it made Bruce want to flee back to the teeth of the dogs. From what he'd seen, the clown acting normal was never a good sign. The very same moment he looked up, however, he knew such desires to escape were futile—the Joker was watching him too closely. A large grin was spread over the monster's lips, like a slab of soft butter over bread, as soon as Bruce's eyes reached his.

"What'd I _tell_ ya, Brucie?" the Joker asked, wagging a finger disapprovingly, although in his muddy eyes there glinted something not unlike a bizarre form of admiration, "I, uh, might not always _be_ there to get you out of a… pickle. Well, _this_ time I was, _wasn't_ I? What do you, ah… _say,_ now?"

"Uh…" Bruce couldn't find the words to explain away why he was outside the main room, and 'I was planning my escape,' while honest, probably wasn't the sort of honesty that the Joker would appreciate. "…Thank you?"

It was phrased like a question, but the Joker didn't seem to care. He clapped his gloved hands, once, as if to say 'that's that,' and nodded pleasantly.

"_Good_ _boy_." These words seemed genuine, oddly enough.

The very next second some sort of cloth was thrown over Bruce's head, muffling his shout of surprise. Though he immediately tensed he was unable to rip it off—dozens of hands seized him, holdings his wrists tight and roughly cuffing them behind his back. This would have been painful enough without his injured elbow—fortunately, through the cloth, nobody could see him bite his lip to hold back a scream.

He struggled, of course, fighting to the best of his ability. One kick landed and made a minion let out a soft grunt, a sound that almost unmistakably had come from Slink. But there were a lot of them on him; he was dragged forwards, forcefully, and he could hear the Joker sniggering mockingly somewhere out of arm's reach.

"Ah ha_ ha_, that's it, Brucie! Fight harder! Ooooh, you almost got Applejack on the nose! Aha, Vodka, I warned you about that foot—this time it's _you_ who got tripped, isn't it?"

_Coward_, Bruce wanted to yell_, you'll sick a dozen goons on me? Fight me yourself!_ The only thing that stopped him from saying this aloud, of course, was the terrifying idea that the Joker just might have followed his advice.

How far he'd been dragged, Bruce didn't know, but he felt himself being forced into a sitting position, on a hard wooden chair. He didn't stop struggling—the goons were beginning to have a hard time holding him down, one of them taking a hold on the cloth and pulling it tighter around his face. It was becoming rather difficult for Bruce to breathe—spots were appearing in his obscured vision, until the clown snarled, "That's _enough_, don't _smother_ him!"

Abruptly he was released. The goons' grips were gone, and instead two gloved hands descended onto Bruce's shoulders. He froze immediately. Air caught in his throat—his heaving chest was stilled, and for a moment he felt his heartbeat cease as well; then it returned, pounding away at such a rapid pace that he wondered how the clown could not possibly hear it.

"_Behave_ yourself, now, Brucie," the maniac's lilting voice came to him, the tone one that showed he expected to be fully obeyed. And Bruce, in that instant, had no intention of doing otherwise.

With that, the cloth was yanked from overtop his head. Bruce squinted at the sudden onslaught of light; and found himself staring at a short, blonde woman. She was slightly overweight—he would have preferred the term "healthy" to "chubby"—and her hair was wavy, stretching all the way down to her waist. What struck him as odd was the baseball cap she wore, the flap twisted backwards, and her hoop earrings. She looked, for the lack of a better word, "normal"—and hence completely out of place.

It took him a moment to realize what she was holding: a video camera. The little green light on it showed that the film was rolling.

Suddenly the memory of what had happened to the "false Batman" the last time the Joker had sent out a hostage video sent chills down Bruce's spine. He thought of Daniel Pearl and what the journalist must have felt, his last experience being the feel of his neck sawed through. And, Bruce knew, the Joker was just crazy enough to play the role of a demented executioner.

"Tell them your name," the Joker said, calmly, from somewhere behind him. Bruce risked taking his eyes off the camera to glance up at his captor.

"Why?"

He meant it in the sense of asking what the Joker wanted of him, whether this was some form of prologue to a terrible death—perhaps the Joker had grown tired of his flippant remarks, as he'd been warned that the clown would, and his tongue had caused his demise after all? But, in this instance, his tongue seemed to one again save him. The Joker let out a high-pitched giggle, nearly shrieking,

"_Why_ indeed? Ha ha… Brucie, you're so _vain_. Of _course_ everyone knows _you_. Even me. But, aha, all the better, all the _better_—after all, I've never quite threatened Gotham with the death of someone this important before, have I?"

The gloved hands on Bruce's shoulders flexed, as if testing their strength, and Bruce felt certain that behind him, his captor's torn lips were smiling.

"Goo_ooood_ _morning_, Gotham—today, we… hm_mmn_… Today, we have a little _diversion_ from our pathetic, ordinary little _lives…_" the Joker fairly purred, digging his thumbs into Bruce's shoulder-blades. "Today, we all learn to have… _fun_."

**000 Author's Note 000**

So, now we're back to where we were in Chapter 20. Very roundabout way, I'd admit, but we're that much closer to the big booms and bangs. :D

Many thanks as always to my reviewers: RedNex, Vanafindiel, immortalisforever, Lady Padfoot21, fluffyfg, Almost Funny, Miravisu, Mickerayla, Taluliaka, Haladflire65, ktwesterna, Dark.Morning, Aj-sama, CountryPixie, Heir to the World, & Csillan.Rose. I'm so flattered when people read my story, but when they actually take the time to REVIEW it... wow. Thank you, guys! Hugs all around! C:

Also, thanks to "RedNex" for putting this story into a... C2? Is that what it's called? Nifty little thing. Go take a look at the other stories on there! Some of them are really good.


	23. Tapes

**IF THE FOUNDATIONS BE DESTROYED, WHAT CAN THE RIGHTEOUS DO?**

I don't own Batman. DC Comics does.

Please note that violence will occur in this story, and that less offensive words like "damn" will be used, but more offensive words will be "asterisked" out. Some sexuality will occur but never anything explicit. As of now this story is rated "T"—if any readers feel the rating needs to be raised, please contact me accordingly and it will be.

.

PLEASE NOTE THAT THIS STORY WILL BE CHANGED TO THE "DARK KNIGHT" SECTION OF SOMETIME AROUND THE NEXT CHAPTER UPDATE, WHEREAS IT FORMERLY WAS IN THE "BATMAN BEGINS" SECTION. SO YOU CAN FIND IT THERE FROM NOW ON. :)

.

**Chapter Twenty-Three: Tapes**

_Friday, 12:01 A.M._

"_Goo_ooood morning,_ Gotham—today, we… hm_mmn…_ Today, we have a little _diversion _from our pathetic, ordinary little _lives… _Today, we all learn to have… _fun."

Bruce was barely aware of the words. They rolled into his ears like the sound of an unremarkable backdrop—it was as if he was at the beach, listening to music, and was scarcely picking up the rolling of the waves in the distance. Yet, just as the continual beat of the sea on the shore erodes away the sand, so also did those words, scarcely heard, wear at his resolve. He bowed his head—he just couldn't look any more. Not at the camera and the horrified citizenry who would eventually be watching through it, not at the cold dark room, and most certainly not at the monster behind him.

Said monster must not have approved of this, however, for the Joker promptly slapped Bruce on the back of the head, forcing the billionaire to wince and stare back into the camera once more. Bruce thus somehow _felt_, rather than saw, the clown lean in to his ear, whispering so only he could overhear, "You're _live_, Brucie, so play nice now. Wouldn't want me to have to make an… _example_, eh?"

Immediately Bruce bit his tongue. The Joker couldn't have audiences at home thinking his own prisoner wasn't terrified of him. The vigilante didn't trust himself enough to speak. His mouth had caused him enough trouble all day already—he really, really didn't want to see what his subconscious would spew out next.

The clown straightened up again, with a soft rustle of cloth, and one gloved hand patted Bruce's head. Such a patronizing motion… Bruce hated it. The feel of it, leathery fingers curling slightly to rap hard against his skull, the way that the Joker seemed to let his hand rest heavy on his hair, as if the monster knew how aggravating this was to endure…

Bruce wanted to hit him.

Who cared if half of Gotham was watching? The consequences didn't matter, right? What mattered was his own comfort, and he didn't like to have his personal space so invaded. He didn't like how his elbow felt like the size of a pineapple, how the slight touch of his tux's sleeve was sending waves of agony up his arm and down his spine. There were bruises on his knees from when the dog had knocked him down. At his back, the hard chair seemed to bite into his flesh, its metal frame sharp and harsh against his exhausted form—although it and it alone was probably all that was holding him upright at the moment.

What interrupted his misery was the cessation of the hand's patting: it descended once more to his shoulder, where all ten of the violet-gloved fingers began tapping, rapping at Bruce's tux coat with surprising rhythm. The billionaire tried to focus, to keep his face steady, but it was becoming increasingly hard not to shudder under the cruel weight.

"For… too long," the Joker said, calmly, "Gotham has been wandering about _aimlessly_, no real purpose in anything. Just drudge, drudge, _drudge,_ on and on, you do your job I'll do _mine_, I'm a-workin' on the _rail_road, _oh_ what a beautiful morning…"

The clown trailed off, as if he'd lost his train of thought—which really wouldn't have surprised Bruce. Then the rapping of the gloved fingers stopped. Without warning they clenched, tightly, as if the vigilante were one of those squeezable stress-relievers for the overworked and under-appreciated, and the monster behind him let out a laugh.

"Sounds like a city in need of rescue! Well, don't worry… you all have Dr. Joker here to _save… the… day._"

From his position Bruce could see a grin forming on the plush lips of chubby woman holding the camera. She was young, he realized. He would have been surprised if she was eighteen. He spared one moment to wonder what she was doing here—_hostage?_—but no, her smile and lack of tension bespoke to the idea that she was comfortable here, even belonged here, no matter how out-of-place she looked. In truth, he was too tired to care one way or the other at this point.

"Of course you really don't need _me_. You've had your little, aha, _hero_… in shining armor… for some time now. Pity you don't pay any _attention_ to him."

The Joker's next sentence made Bruce's blood run cold.

"The _Bat Man_."

On his shoulders the clown's hands clutched even tighter, as if trying to wring the life out of him, and the billionaire barely managed to stave off a wince. Just like that, however, the squeezing stopped—and immediately the hands were brushing at his shoulders, in a way that reminded Bruce of a make-up artist tiding him up before a video shoot. There wasn't necessarily ever anything on his shoulders or his suit, but rather this seemed to just be the way that the artists assured themselves that they'd gotten everything done. It was bizarre enough when _they_ did it… with the Joker mimicking their actions, the situation had reached a height of absurdity that Bruce didn't even know a word for.

_What's the matter with him?_ The billionaire thought, wearily. _Can't he hold still? How can he be so energetic while I'm so drained? Doesn't he get tired?_

The hands seemed to be brushing in unison with each of the Joker's words—and with every stroke, they seemed to weigh heavier, pressing down harder and harder. Bruce wondered if he'd be punished for trying to shift away… just as much, he wondered how much more he could endure before doing something rash and stupid.

"He's been trying to… _help_ you people—can't you see that?" the clown asked, voice surprisingly calm. "He's been… the _hero_… you people need."

_Thanks for the recommendation,_ Bruce wanted to say, _but you're really_, really _not the sort of person Batman wants praising him to the public. So I'm afraid I'm going to have to deny your little endorsement._ He didn't say this out loud, but he could only pray that his facial expression was not communicating something like it to the audience.

"He's been trying to _wake—you—up!_ Shake you out of your _little_ worlds—_rattling_ the bars of your cages. Wake _up_, people! _Arise_, Gotham! What you're doing isn't working! Your city is falling, and _you_ can stop it!"

This sequence of statements only served to add waves of nauseous sickness to Bruce's pre-existing exhaustion. The words sounded perilously close to what the Batman actually believed: some part of him, deep within, was revolted by those phrases coming from the crimson, gory lips. He wanted to throw up. Whether this was entirely from the Joker's terminology, or partially from a lack of nutrition in the past few hours, he couldn't tell.

Maybe… maybe it was just the situation catching up to him. Shock. He was allowed to feel that, right? It was entirely possible he would die in the next few minutes. He was allowed to be afraid… wasn't he?

_No_, snarled some feral part of him, the part that was Batman. The vigilante couldn't be afraid—fear belonged to the victims, and it was his lot to be their courageous rescuer. For too long he had fought too hard against his fears to give in to the emotion now.

But… here there were no victims, no targeted innocents to save. Here, _he_, Bruce Wayne, was the only sufferer. What should he feel when it was _his_ head on the chopping block? Wasn't he allowed to be afraid, at least a little, sometimes?

_No_, the inner voice told him, again. Yet somehow Bruce's anxiety did not lessen. Nothing seemed to alleviate the horrible, sinking feeling in his stomach.

It didn't help things that at that same moment the Joker became animated. The clown seemed angry—almost infuriated. His violet-gloved hands started to become violent, each stroke on Bruce's shoulders virtually becoming a harsh slap.

"But no… what do you do? Treat him like a _freak_. Hunt him like a _dog_. Call him… call him… _crazy._"

_Crazy_… the word was spoken with such vehemence that Bruce shuddered. Was the Joker really upset for Batman's sake? Or was this something more…? Something more… _personal_…

_He did seem to hate that word before_, Bruce realized. When the Ambassador had called him "crazy," the Joker lashed out at her, almost as if out of control. Indeed, he'd given her a concussion… and Bruce had no doubt that if he hadn't intervened when he had, the clown would have killed her. It was odd, that the Joker should kidnap Giedre, just to almost dispatch her as soon as he'd arrived back to his hideaway. Surely even the maniac wasn't _that_ illogical…

But the clown must have felt his prisoner shudder, for suddenly the hands' brushing stopped. Bruce froze, expecting something horrible to happen, but they only rested lightly, immobile. One purple hand was lifted, to wag a finger at the camera.

"_Not_ so smooth, Gotham. Not so nice. _So…_"

The mauve fingers snapped.

"We're going to have an _intervention._"

That word was like a gunshot to Bruce's ears. He was suddenly attentive, the lines defining the world becoming sharper, crisper, clearer. What did "intervention" mean? On some level he cursed himself for not being prepared for this. Of course the Joker would be making some demands! This was a _hostage_ video! And if the clown was making requests, perhaps this meant that Bruce would not be killed after all—his welfare be the threat, if the demands weren't carried out. Then again, in the tape with the "false Batman," there was a death involved…

_Yeah_, Bruce thought, _but back then he was just trying to prove something. Prove that he'd really kill someone._

But who knew what he was trying to prove now?

"Don't _worry_, Gotham. It'll seem _terrible _at first. But… ah… as we all know… the night is _darkest_ before the dawn." A dark chuckle sounded, as if the clown was reflecting on the irony of his words.

Bruce, for his part, wanted to yell that the Joker had no business speaking that phrase aloud. Dent's speech on the day he'd claimed himself as Batman was now world-famous. It was, in some regards, like a miniature phenomenon, quoted commonly by the press (this was despite that it had been in favor of the Bat Man, someone who they were entirely against). Hearing the Joker mock it was one step away from blasphemy.

"Now then… we all hate _corruption_, don't we, Gotham? It's everywhere. As I recall…" another dark chuckle resounded, "Good ol' _Harvey_ tried to stamp it out. Shame he didn't… ah, _practice,_ what he _preached_."

_No._ Horror overwhelmed Bruce. Surely, the Joker couldn't know what had actually occurred with Dent. True, the clown would probably have his suspicions, but it was impossible for him to truly _know_. He couldn't tell anyone of Dent's threats against the Gordon family. Nobody would believe him, anyway…

But what if they did? What if Gotham learned that its "white knight" wasn't so pure? Gotham had almost been destroyed the last time the clown went on a rampage. What if the Joker had broken out of Arkham to finish the job?

_Don't do it,_ Bruce pleaded. _Oh, don't let him do it, please don't…_

Odd. He wasn't even saying this out loud—so who was supposed to hear him?

"But he didn't quite… _make _it, did he, Gotham? And you've been ignoring the Batman… so I'll be a good, uh,_ upstanding_ citizen and help you all out."

Both hands suddenly flashed into Bruce's vision, and one of the plum gloves was pulled off. It was waved in his face, almost like one would dangle string at a feline, before being dropped to the floor. The gloveless hand then began running through his hair, fingers twisting and curling, yanking almost cruelly, like they wanted to rip large fistfuls of midnight-colored locks up from their roots. It was such a savage motion, so full of violent intent, that Bruce had a sudden vision of being scalped, Native-American style, with a potato peeler. He refused to allow himself to shudder. He would not react—not if that was what the Joker wanted.

"Where shall we _begin_…" the clown murmured, so softly that the billionaire wondered if the camera recorded it.

"Ah. At the beginning. That's always best. _Right_, Brucie?"

The sudden tug at his hair told the captive his answer was required.

"Yeah."

His throat felt dry, abused. Once that thought entered his mind, Bruce wondered about the injured dog, back up along the tunnel. Was it dead, now? It hadn't been in very good condition when he left it…

Another sharp tug reminded him that he should be far more concerned about his own situation.

"So, then," the clown said, utterly calm. "I guess we start with… _Pete_. My loverly little lawyer. And _Huerta_. Dent's two-bit replacement. The good ol' attorney duo, one _defending_, one _prosecuting_… so _orderly_ and _systematic_… I want them punished."

His voice rose, but while his ungloved hand clenched tighter at Bruce's hair, there was no pain.

"_Punished_, you hear me, Gotham? For their commitment to… to… _blind justice_. Which isn't really so blind, when you _think_ about it."

The Joker was tearing his hair out—the clown had to be. Why wasn't he feeling it?

"And after that… _ha_. You had to know this was coming, _Varnham_."

For some reason Bruce had the strange notion that the Joker had winked for the camera, after this statement. He couldn't see the clown's face, however, so he had no idea why he believed this.

"We all know that Arkham is… a place for _loonies_. But I… well, obviously. I didn't _belong _there. But did Varnham see this? No. So… this, this is a message for the cops. _Take a closer look._ Because Varnham and Quinzel… they deserve a lot worse than Pete and Huerta, _see?_"

The maniac's fingernails scraped at Bruce's scalp, almost like they wanted to tear bloody tracks in their wake.

"_See,_ Brucie?" demanded the clown, and Bruce felt the need to reply.

"Yeah."

Although the billionaire knew it was not a good policy to reply with the same answer twice, nevertheless this was a case of his mind spurting out what first appeared. In response, the Joker's fist clenched in his hair, and for a moment the clown seemed to be considering whether or not he should pull. Bruce waited. It felt hard to breathe. But, gradually, by small degrees, the fingers loosened, until they returned to running through his hair once more. A peculiar out-of-tune humming of something—was that _Humpty-Dumpty?_—had started from the maniac.

"No you don't, Brucie," he said, softly, his voice rather like a river's current—glossy and calm on the top, but hiding sharp, cutting rocks underneath—"No. You _don't._"

The grin on the chubby woman's face was gone, now. Bruce only wearily, subconsciously, noted this.

"And… _finally_," intoned the Joker, and at first the billionaire thought he was again being addressed, until he realized the clown was talking louder, so he had to be speaking to the camera once more. Whether this was good or bad, he couldn't tell.

"Finally… we have our great _champion_, Mr. Anthony Garcia. How _are_ you, ol' buddy? We had such a time, playing—"

But the Joker's sentence, and his hand, ceased abruptly. The face of the woman holding the camera crinkled into an expression of confusion—as, likely, did the faces of the citizenry currently tuned in to the news. But Bruce, of all the onlookers, knew why.

The clown's fingers had discovered the cut on the side of his head.

Alfred. Bruce's heart ached. Alfred had sewn up the cut after the vigilante's little run-in with Dr. Crane, all those nights ago. While it had been less than a week, now seemed like an eternity away to Bruce—he'd forgotten the stitches were even there, hidden away under his hairline, until the Joker had rediscovered them. The monster's hand paused, and even though he couldn't look, Bruce was certain that the clown had a small smile on his face.

But the maniac said nothing. Why? Was he surprised? Perhaps shocked, even? Bruce didn't want to ask—nervously, he realized that the psychopath was running his thumb along the stitches, testing how long the cut was.

It was a bizarre motion—more bizarre, even, than anything previous. Under the hands of someone he trusted, such as Alfred (or even, in his younger days, his father), it would have been a soothing motion, but under the Joker it was simply sinister. Of everyone he knew, the clown was the most unbalanced and the one to be feared.

He was reminded of this even more when the Joker suddenly dug his thumbnail into the gash, opening the scab and tearing the stitches. Bruce jerked, more from surprise than pain, but fortunately most of this motion was probably not apparent to the camera, for the Joker's other gloved hand held him still.

The grip tightened so fiercely that Bruce wanted to squirm. It reminded him disturbingly of how his mother used to clasp his arm tighter when he was behaving badly—and how this had only made him wriggle more, even though he knew she would only release him when he finally stayed still. Strange that he was having all these memories of his parents—was it because he was so close to death whenever the Joker was around? Death always made him think of his mother and father…

Yet whatever had brought the clown pause, he now recovered from. Holding both hands still, the maniac intoned,

"Ah… yes. _Garcia_. As I was saying. We had fun playing… playing… _cat and mouse_. But. But, ah, you never… _played fair._ So—"

Bruce struggled not to bite his lip as the maniac dug his finger deeper into the cut.

_He's trying to get a reaction_, the billionaire told himself. _Don't give him what he wants._

"So," said the Joker, as if nothing unusual were happening, "I want him to apologize. Say you're _sorry_, Anthony. Say… say you were a _bad_ boy for getting away. I even played dress-up, aimed at you myself… and you were _naughty_, hiding behind poor Jimmy Gordon. So I want a personal, _public_ apology."

_This is absurd,_ thought Bruce, frantically. On his skull the gash felt like fire, like the Joker's thumb was a nail being hammered into his head. Public apology? _He just wants another shot at the Mayor!_

"And," the clown seemed to pause for dramatic effect. "And… if not… Brucie here… well. There'll be another tape, this time tomorrow…"

The maniac's voice shifted lower, almost taunting, "But I suggest no _kiddies_ should watch that one. No… _squeamish_ people."

Before Bruce realized it, the gloved hand was gone from his shoulder—suddenly he felt something cold pressed up against his left ear, the tip of it biting into his skin… he didn't need to see to know it was a knife.

"Do you all… _hear_ me?" Giggled the monster. "Get it?"

_That's so lame,_ Bruce almost said, but stopped himself just in time. Maybe he'd get control of his mouth after all. And as for the Joker's threat… Bruce decided that, just this once, he wanted the city to give in to the clown's demands.

This seemed to be the end of the recording. The chubby woman holding the camera lowered it, its little green light having disappeared. She whipped out a cell phone, and started punching keys furiously.

Much to Bruce's overwhelming relief, at the same time the monster behind him moved off, without another word. The billionaire saw the clown was examining his thumb—which, to Bruce's surprise, was coated red. It was only at that moment when he became aware of the feeling of something slimy sliding down the back of his neck, a ticklish sort of feeling, like a wispy feather running up and down his skin. He was bleeding.

The Joker paused by the rickety table, seizing a cloth and flinging it at him. It hit the startled Bruce in the face, then fell to the floor, where it was draped unceremoniously over his dress shoes.

"Wipe up," the clown commanded, offhandedly.

Bruce stared.

"I'm… I'm tied up," he murmured, without really thinking about it. The clown wasn't paying attention—indeed, the maniac had an odd, troubled sort of look on his face, as if he was trying hard to recall something important.

"Hmm?"

"I said," Bruce stated, "I… uh… you handcuffed me."

As if surprised, the clown blinked, focusing his attention back on the captive once more. "I did?"

_What the…_ Bruce thought, but he refused to allow himself to say that aloud. Surely this was another game. The Joker wasn't this forgetful… was he?

But if he wasn't, the clown certainly knew how to play the part. A look of understanding had suddenly dawned on the painted face, the marred lips opening and the red tongue flickering forth, like a bright red flame, to lick anxiously at them.

"_Oh_, I _did_, I _did_, didn't I? Well, I'll just fix that."

Crossing the space between him and the vigilante in a few long-legged strides, the clown jerked Bruce's wrists roughly, but this action so jolted the vigilante's elbow that for a moment he was completely lost in agony—his vision obscured, hearing deafened… it was an absolute sensory shutdown. He came back to awareness when the Joker's fingers rapped the side of his head, not unlike they would on a tabletop.

"Brucie… _were_ you _listening_ when I spoke to you?"

"No," the billionaire half-moaned, his tongue feeling parched, and his entire body wracked by his elbow's continuing protests. Hearing this, the clown shook his painted head.

"Ah, Brucie, Brucie, Brucie… only _now_ you decide to opt for a breakdown? Why couldn't you have done this for the camera? Is it _really_ that hard?"

Bruce blinked, trying to clear his vision, but spots kept appearing. He was close to passing out, he realized. A toxic combination of exhaustion, sleep deprivation, and pain, had settled into his body. His adrenaline gland had probably given him all it could give, and was now depleted. The only thing he saw with any clarity was the clown, who surprisingly was heading back to the card table.

What was he supposed to do, again? Oh, right. Wipe up the blood. But that cut had required stitches before… was it healed enough to scab over on its own, now? It didn't matter, Bruce supposed—it was going to have to, because there wasn't any supplies to stitch it here. He managed to bend over far enough to retrieve the cloth on his shoes, even if his movements were sluggish and somewhat confused.

The cloth was dirty. Grimy. Bruce barely noticed, as he applied it to the back of his skull. An infection was not something he needed, but he really didn't care at this point. When he pulled the cloth away, it contained a large blot of red.

"_Bedtime_," came the clown's intonation. Bruce somehow saw that the maniac had jerked a thumb toward Giedre's door. "All cleaned up? _Good_. See you tomorrow, Brucie. We have a big day planned. Get some _beauty_ sleep—can't have you goin' into public without it."

Whatever this meant, Bruce didn't know. The prisoner managed to haul himself upright, and amazingly stayed on his feet, although at any moment he expected to give out and collapse. Unconsciousness would be a blessed release… a godsend.

As he headed toward the door, however, confusion clouded his mind. At first he thought this was the beginning of oblivion, but then he realized that, no, this was the actual emotion. At the doorframe he stopped, turned, and stared back at the Joker, who regarded him with a lazy expression, although in the brown eyes there was a spark of fierce interest.

"Why?" The word slipped from his lips. Yes—_why_, indeed? What really mattered was the unspoken other half of the question: _Why am I still alive? Why are you letting me go, as if I didn't try to escape?_

The clown seemed to understand. He had a plastic cup halfway to his red-rimmed mouth, but he set it back down carefully.

"What?" he asked, his voice calm, "Don't think I _trust_ you, Brucie? _Ah_, but I do. Learned a bit of a lesson today… didn't you? A lesson for _big boys_. Don't go out in the darkness, and _listen to me _when I tell you things. Remember that."

"But…" Bruce didn't know if insanity had taken hold of him, that he was continuing to question his good luck, but nevertheless the word still issued out of his mouth. "How come I'm not…"

He trailed off, struggling with what words to use. The clown, seeing this, raised a black eyebrow, but waited with surprising patience.

"Why," Bruce finally said, "Am I not dead?"

When in doubt, go for bluntness. The vigilante expected the monster to smile—in this regard, he was not disappointed. But, at the same time, it was not a smile of cheerful, dreadful delight: rather, it was filled with a cold, quiet mirth, more menacing than ludicrous.

"Because, Brucie," he said, his voice incredibly normal-sounding, "I'm a patient father. You'll be rebellious for a little while—I know—but you'll calm down soon enough. How can I punish you for something you can't help?"

Bruce stared. His mind was working, racing, attempting to make sense of this new information. How long was "soon enough"? What did all this mean? The clown regarded him, attentively, as if waiting for further questions. But none came to his mind—none that he wanted to verbalize, anyway. He tore his tired gaze from his tormentor, settling it on the door in front of him, and opened the entrance to stagger through. The Joker must have thought his sudden acquiescence to be funny, for a snort of giggling laughter followed him—he shut the door, drowning it out, and managed to stumble over to the bed, where he recklessly let himself collapse on the sheets.

On the other side, Ambassador Giedre struggled to sit up. Bruce wanted to tell her not to bother, that he was fine, but his tongue would not work for him. She eventually gave in, anyway, sinking back onto the covers.

"Were you careful?" her voice was as quiet as a spider weaving a web.

"Yeah," he managed to murmur, before the coming darkness claimed him, "But it didn't help."

**000 Author's Note 000**

I don't know of you all remember the "cut" on the back of Bruce's head—it was waaay back in chapter seven that Alfred sewed it up. But that was only around a week ago for Bruce—it's been hiding under his hair ever since, so even he probably had forgotten about it. I'm having a bit of trouble with continuity: things that will be important later are introduced, and then I forget to write about them for a "couple" chapters and find that I'm forced to reintroduce them. Ah, well…I'll just have to work on that. 8)

I also have been writing a little ("little"… _ha_) fan-fiction on the side of this for the past few months now, and I just now posted it. It takes place in the same universe as this story, but is AU, if that makes any sense (basically, it has some of the same original characters). Anyone who wants to read it should be warned that it's very depressing—I mean VERY. For me, anyway. The title is "Jeremiah's Well" and it is currently in the "Dark Knight" section.

Essentially what this means is that I can't always be writing for this long without taking an occasional break. But don't worry, I'm not going to give up on this story. There's too much to come and too many things I want to do with it for me to stop now. XP

As always, many thanks to reviewers: Vanafindiel, fluffyfg, RedNex, Aj-sama, Lady Padfoot21, Thedarkknight17, Heir to the World, Mickerayla, Taluliaka, Haladflire65, Calathiel of Mirkwood, Deborah, immortalisforever, ktwesterna, Csillan.Rose, & Padfoot n' Moony. Thanks for the interest in this story! :D


	24. Devastation

**IF THE FOUNDATIONS BE DESTROYED, WHAT CAN THE RIGHTEOUS DO?**

I don't own Batman. DC Comics does.

Please note that violence will occur in this story, and that less offensive words like "damn" will be used, but more offensive words will be "asterisked" out. Some sexuality will occur but never anything explicit. As of now this story is rated "T"—if any readers feel the rating needs to be raised, please contact me accordingly and it will be.

This is posted in a bit of a rush, so forgive any typos.

**Chapter Twenty-Four: Devastation **

_Friday, 12:23 A.M._

It was like the television in the hospital waiting room had become an angry hornets' nest, and the swarming stingers were everywhere. There was panic in the faces of everyone in Baldassare's sight. Personally, he would have gone more for the "_I'm gonna _kill_ that bloody clown!_" approach, rather than the "_Bloody hell the world is falling apart!_" one.

"Would you all calm down?" he yelled, though his voice was nearly lost in the cloud of buzzing, terrified voices. So he stuck two fingers in the sides of his mouth, ignoring the way this made his cheeks look like an overfull chipmunk's, and whistled.

Loudly.

All activity ceased. People clutched at their ears. John Baldassare had the sort of whistle that die-hard sports fans envied, one which could be heard all the way across a basketball court. He'd perfected it with the intent of using it on the battlefield, to be heard over any gunshots, but he'd never quite succeeded. Now that he was a cop he hadn't used it for so long that it hurt his throat. He was left breathless afterwards, and everyone simply stood there, staring at him, while he struggled to speak.

"Calm down," he said, finally. No sooner had the words left his mouth than the panicking started up again.

Baldassare could only sigh. These cops called _him_ a rookie—still, he was the highest-ranking man here, so it fell to him to restore order in the hospital.

"Turn off that TV!" he barked at the nearest policeman, who, surprised at being addressed directly, did as he was told. The newswoman onscreen, sputtering excuses about how the Joker had somehow "hacked" onto the network's mainframe, was zapped out of sight.

This seemed to calm some people down. Baldassare was relieved to find many of the officers now responding as Gotham's finest should. He had to remind himself that while he had seen battle, they had lived through the Joker before. They were practically war veterans themselves.

The people in the hospital, however, were nonetheless still restless. It took a great deal of cajoling, ordering, and even threatening to get them to a manageable state. Even then a lingering sense of panic pervaded the air, as unpleasant as the smell of a day's-old corpse.

"What should we do, sir?" asked a young officer, sidling up to Baldassare. The Bostonian was surprised. Although older in age he was almost equal to this man in rank, and this fellow policeman had spent several more years on the force than him. Yet the fellow sounded like a mouse.

Baldassare tried to think. Who was in charge, now that Commissioner Gordon was unconscious in surgery? The name of the Vice-Commissioner came to him after a few moments. He groaned. _Hartridge_. It had to be him.

Well, this was going to be a disaster.

Still… if he wasn't recalling incorrectly, this was Hartridge's day off, wasn't it? He had until six in the morning (his watch said it was 12:46 am) to arrange things before Hartridge took over... and honestly, the Vice-Commissioner wasn't all that bad.

Really.

"Okay…" he mumbled, "Okay… uh, we've got to get things moving."

"Yeah," responded the other cop. "Um… what first?"

_Well…_

"The Joker," said Baldassare, not missing the way that the other cop flinched at the clown's title, "has threatened several people. Our first priority is to find them. Put them under police protection. So get all available members of the force—"

"But—" stuttered the other officer, "But what about the interviews? The people in the hospital rooms—"

"Are they going to die?" Baldassare demanded, interrupting the man. "We don't need interviews—we _know_ the Joker is the one who did it! And I'll bet a pretty penny that we now also know where the Ambassador and Mr. Wayne are, too. Interviews are done by reporters, not police officers. That damned clown has practically threatened the Mayor!"

"Okay," mumbled the other man. "Okay… Mayor, potential target."

"And… who else," the Bostonian tried to remember. "The D.A., Something Huerta, I think her name is. Her too."

"The Joker's defense lawyer," added a third cop, who joined the two of them. "'Pete,' I think that psycho called him. Can't remember his name right now…"

"And let's not forget: the Arkham doctors," Baldassare finished, grimly. Of all the people the Joker had listed, they had been the ones addressed with particular vehemence. The Mayor had been referred to in a playful manner—and "Pete" and Huerta mentioned with a pretense of seriousness… but the Arkham doctors seemed to have been something else entirely. What it was, he didn't know, but he had a sneaking suspicion that if the clown had a hit list, they were on top.

"First priority is the Mayor," he said. "Keep some officers here, just in case… but maybe twenty or so need to go protect Garcia. You"—he pointed at his first companion, "That's your job."

As the man scurried away, Baldassare turned to the third officer. "Who here is next in rank?"

"Uh… Marl, I think," the fellow replied.

Baldassare sighed. Marl Rena Jones was the most notorious of the female cops—she was exceptionally hard to work with. He could only work with what he had, however.

"I guess it's her job to get Huerta and this 'Pete' fellow," he said, and the other officer headed off to find her, looking less than happy with his assignment.

"Everybody give me a call when they're in place!" Baldassare shouted to their retreating backs, before picking three other officers and hurrying them out the door. The dark night was cold, but compared to the chilly temperature of the hospital it was like being in the desert. He and his companions entered the parking lot, where there was a mess of police cars clogging up the concrete. They chose two of them.

"Uh… just where are we going, sir?" one of his two cohorts asked, as he climbed into the seat next to Baldassare. The other two men sat behind the second car's wheel.

"To get the Arkham doctors," the Bostonian answered, grimly.

**000 . d . da . dar . dark . dark k . dark kn . dark kni . dark knig . dark knigh . dark knight . 000**

_Friday, 1:08 A.M._

Alfred was devastated.

Most people watching the Joker's broadcast had probably missed all the nuances of Bruce's facial expressions, knowing the billionaire only through tabloids, where he had a permanent Cheshire grin smeared over his features. But Alfred, the man who was there whenever his employer stumbled home every night, who sewed up cuts and tended to bruises, and who had known the vigilante from infancy onwards… Alfred knew when Bruce was holding something back.

Even if Bruce didn't want to tell him.

Take the billionaire's elbow, for instance. Alfred had noticed the injury the moment that his employer had staggered through the kitchen door a few months previous. He had noticed it again when the injury had been aggravated—what had harmed it a second time, he did not know. And thus, when he saw in the video the way Bruce had been leaning slightly to the side, as if to favor the right half of his body, the butler immediately knew why.

All these months, he had been waiting for Bruce to mention it. To, in crude terms, "'fess up." To confess that yes, he had hurt his elbow; yes, he was not immortal and inviolable; and yes, he did trust Alfred enough to let him in, to reveal the weakness that lay under pounds of muscle and layers of mental defense. For far too long the younger man had been operating under the delusion of his unbreakable strength: "Batman has no limits," he had once confidently asserted to Alfred.

The butler had been quick to correct him that time, telling him that Bruce Wayne did indeed have some very real limits, but somehow his young charge had not quite gotten the idea through his thick skull. That, at least, was probably partially Alfred's own fault. Bruce had a way of dividing himself in half, labeling one part of himself the Batman, another part the Wayne. He often acted as if the Wayne half was the true mask. What he didn't realize was that it was quite the opposite. He was Bruce Wayne, first and foremost—Batman was simply an offshoot of the Prince of Gotham.

Even now Alfred remembered the bygone years of his charge's life. Bruce had been a pampered child. Hard words wore down on him easily—he never received them. Thomas and Martha were not perfect parents. Far from it. They had not realized that discipline was a necessary part of a child's growth. Martha had burst into tears when she had once been forced to put him in a corner as a toddler. He was spoiled, spoiled rotten—yet at the same time, he managed to also absorb some of the same soft-spoken and gentle natures of his parents and butler, for he knew nothing else.

Those same soft-spoken natures had come forth, most strongly, following the death of Bruce's parents. For a period of around half a year, Bruce was timid, quiet, and easily frightened—he often showed up at Alfred's bedside in the middle of the night, saying nothing but needing comfort. Alfred had wondered if his charge would be so timorous throughout the rest of his life.

But then, at the end of six months, something seemed to reverse itself, and the hesitant nature was entirely subsumed under a different, harsher one. At first it seemed like Bruce's spoiled attitude was being re-asserted, that he was merely healing back into the person he had been before. But no: there was something different in him. Darker. Angrier. Bruce the spoiled prince had gone from being Bruce the mouse to Bruce the troubled child, the boy who destroyed things, shattered vases, busted car windows, tore book pages… he was raging against the world, against its unfairness, screaming out for explanations the only way he knew how. And the world did not answer.

Alfred's hands were tied. If the boy's parents were alive he would have been urging Thomas to do the manly thing, and take his son over his knee. But if the boy's parents had not been killed, he would not have had reason for his anger. What could Alfred do? He was not the boy's father—he was the child's butler. Butlers did not raise their hands against their employers, but adoptive guardians did discipline their charges. Which should he be?

In his desperation he had turned to the only other source he knew, the same that had helped him through his own rage when his wife had died in a house fire years before then. Within the confessional he apologized to the priest on the other side, before explaining that he needed advice with a troubled child—Alfred didn't want to see the man's face, as he explained what was happening in the household, nor to let the man know what household these stories were from. The man was quiet for a long time, even after Alfred had finished.

"It sounds to me," said the priest, after a while, "like the child is angry at more than the changes in his life. He is angry at himself. He doesn't like that he is hurting, so he is trying to stop himself from feeling pain. He destroys things to show himself that nothing lasts forever, and therefore nothing is to be missed—like he misses his parents. He does not understand that loss is natural and cannot move on from it."

Even though the man could not see him on the other side of the screen, Alfred nodded slowly. He'd already been told as much by practically every psychologist or specialist he and Bruce had visited, so this was nothing new. He waited for the priest to tell him that he should take the boy to a specialist, for this or that medication, which probably the child had already received at some point before. But the next sentence surprised him.

"And if nothing else has worked…" the priest continued, "Then it is because it is not what the boy needs. He needs stability, to offset the loss, but is afraid that it will let him down like his parents did. You are his guardian. Tell him that you are different. Tell him that you will last. Give him an anchor."

On the drive home, Alfred had repeated these words over and over, working up his nerve. Some part of his mind had told him he was being ridiculous; he'd faced down jungle drug cartels, but couldn't speak a few confident words to a boy on the brink of the teenage years?

Yet before he pulled into the manor's garage, he understood why he felt the way he did. It was easy to battle drug lords and petty thieves—they were your enemy, you knew what they felt about you and what you felt about them. It was so much harder to love… and he loved that boy. Rejection was something that could hurt far more than knives and bullets—and, truth be told, he would be surprised if the boy didn't doubt his words.

But that only made him want to fulfill his promises even more.

So he summoned the boy, who appeared before his guardian sullenly, obviously expecting yet another round of scolding over some deed that Alfred probably hadn't discovered yet. Instead, sitting the child on the couch, the butler had pulled a chair over, taken Bruce's resisting hands in his own, and told him whatever he thought the young Wayne needed to hear. The boy was quiet as Alfred spoke to him. When he finished, the butler put as much force into his last few words as he could muster.

"_I will never give up on you, Bruce. Never."_

He could tell from the dazed look on the boy's face that the child did not know how to react. This was completely out of the Wayne heir's expectations. Emotions began to flicker through those sapphire eyes—but not positive ones. Accusation. Mistrust. At last the child yanked his hands away, stood, and fairly ran from the room. Alfred was not surprised: of course Bruce would believe he was lying. The boy did not trust anyone. All the more reason for Alfred to keep his promise.

But the child tested him. Severely. Time after time, something horrible would happen at the manor; once Bruce had even killed a lizard out back, and left the strangled corpse on Alfred's pillow, in an ironic "_Godfather_" style. But the butler did not react. He never forced the boy to clean up the messes—guilt, he'd discovered, was a powerful ally. And only after a long time, did it begin to wear down the child's defenses.

Alfred first noticed the change when Bruce came to him for advice. How should he ask this or that question to his tutor? What should he say to a journalist who wouldn't leave him alone? Could he join judo classes? The answer to the last one was an emphatic yes, and with another outlet for his energy—which, Alfred had quickly learned, the boy had nearly limitless reserves of—the tests of the butler's goodwill grew more and more infrequent.

Around the age of fifteen the episodes ceased altogether. And Alfred knew he'd won when, one day, sixteen-year-old Bruce had asked about girls. Did he think Rachel would like wildflowers or roses? Wildflowers, the butler said, anyone can buy roses but only a few would spend the time to pick them. He knew that Bruce had been thinking along those same lines—it was not a question of seriously wanting an answer. The boy just wanted approval for his plan. He cared what Alfred thought.

But the boy was not perfect. Never perfect. He grew from troubled child to an angry young man. It was only after his years of incognito wandering—years of sheer torture for Alfred—when the butler had picked his master up on that runway in China, had he seen the change. There was a new element in Bruce's walk. A new swagger. Bravado without the cowardice of anger and hate hiding behind it. Someone who was confident enough to tell others what he was thinking and feeling.

Never completely, of course. Bruce had always thrown up a mask, even while a little child, before all the horrible nightmares had happened. But after returning to the city, while his circle of trusted people was small, Alfred had possessed the great fortune to be in the very center of it. Every so often he had to remind the young Wayne of his promise—_I will never quit, never give up on you_—but somehow, most of the time, he had the sense that Bruce knew this. And that it gave the younger man a certain sense of peace, knowing that his childhood guardian would always be there.

But that was just it. Alfred knew he would not last forever.

He did not want Bruce to be alone. That was why he had picked a helper. Temperance—she understood what it was to be alone, he'd learned during her interview for the position, and he'd immediately known that if anyone could tolerate Bruce's character, his constant flux of overwhelming energy followed by burned-out exhaustion, it would be her. In some way Alfred had felt like he was fulfilling his promise, keeping it despite the inevitable grave that was coming inexorably closer to him over the years. He knew Bruce would not—_could_ not—take his eventual death lightly. At least if he had someone there, someone who had known Alfred as well, he might be able to make the transition to living without his faithful butler.

Things had not gone as planned, though. It was not Master Wayne sitting here in anguish, but him. There was an ache in Alfred's heart that threatened to become a monsoon of grief. He was the one alone, now—it was he who was sitting here, thinking about his master and his beloved child, reminiscing as if Bruce was the one who was dead.

That broadcast… the look in Bruce's eyes… pain. Exhaustion. And fear. Alfred, who had seen that look far too many times before, knew it too well to deny its reality. For just a moment, he had thought he was not looking into the face of the Batman—the butler was looking into the eyes of a frightened eleven-year-old, clutching at his father's worn jacket, and who knew, despite everyone's assurances to the contrary, that nothing would ever be okay, ever, ever again.

Garcia had someone else in the room, who was telling him that the police had arrived and were putting the mansion on lockdown, something about the Mayor being a potential target. But the words might as well have been in a foreign language, for all the attention Alfred paid them. The old man put his head in his hands, shielding his face. Right now he just wanted to be alone. Or perhaps… not alone. He would have given anything, in that moment, despite the obvious danger of the situation, to be near Bruce. To, once again, tell him—_I have not given up. Will you?_

**000 . d . da . dar . dark . dark k . dark kn . dark kni . dark knig . dark knigh . dark knight . 000**

_Friday, 3:36 A.M._

Dr. Harleen Quinzel was easy to find. The phone book didn't have many "Q" surnames in it, and there was only one "Quinzel, H." The address listed belonged to the suburbs.

When he saw her full name on her mailbox, Baldassare didn't immediately understand why the cop in the seat next to him let out a snorting laugh. He decided not to ask.

"Dr. Quinzel?" he inquired, once the front door opened in response to his knock. A young woman stood there, looking quite confused. Her blonde hair was a mess, her blue eyes bleary from sleep—but oh, even a family man like him couldn't deny that she was beautiful. She was dressed in pajamas, overtop which was a fuzzy blue bathrobe, shivering somewhat as the cold night air invaded through the open entrance.

"Yes?" she responded.

"The Joker's doctor?"

She raised an eyebrow. "No."

Of all the answers Baldassare expected to that question, this was not one of them. He thought that perhaps she would have given a little excuse, thinking he was possibly a citizen out for revenge on the clown, but this blatant, confident denial was not the mark of a woman trying to keep her status a secret. She seemed to be supplying an honest answer.

"Then who is?" he asked.

"You look like a cop," she said, "But that doesn't mean anything. Show me a badge."

When he did, she finally let him into the house. His companion followed and started stalking through the residence while Baldassare spoke with her. If she was unnerved about this, Quinzel didn't show it. Quite nonchalantly she led her questioner into the kitchen, where she gave him a cup of coffee and stood by a barstool, dipping a teabag into a mug.

"This is about Arkham, isn't it," she said, softly. "The Joker has done something, hasn't he?"

Something about the sincerity of the question put Baldassare on guard. "I thought you said that you weren't the Joker's doctor."

"Oh, I'm not," she responded, around a gulp of tea.

"Then how do you know this is about him? Did you see the broadcast?"

"What broadcast?"

Somehow her question seemed to be genuine, but the Bostonian wasn't taking any chances. He frowned at her, and said, "Let me get this straight: you're not the Joker's doctor, and you haven't seen the broadcast, but you know this is about him. How am I supposed to take that?"

She merely shrugged, as if this were a conversation over morning tea. "Just call it a hunch."

"Well," Baldassare said, "does your hunch also tell you that the Joker has listed you as a potential target?"

Instantly, but almost imperceptibly, her demeanor changed. Her eyes blinked, as if in shock, and her hand trembled slightly—gingerly, she set her cup on the counter, breathing in a deep sigh.

"No, I didn't know," she said, trancelike. There was a delicate tint of bitterness in her voice, so slight that Baldassare almost missed it. "I… I… oh. Why would he do that? After all, _I'm_ the one who_… _I-I just can't imagine…"

"Can't imagine what?" The cop said, but cursed mentally when his interruption seemed to clear her head. Quinzel glanced at him, a new and wary look in her eyes, and asked,

"What about Ja… I mean, Dr. Varnham? Is he okay?"

"We're going to see him after you," Baldassare told her. There was something odd in her phrasing of the question (it was "_is he okay?_"—not "_is he threatened, too?"_); but before he could probe at it, his fellow officer entered the room to announce the house was clear. Quinzel was so startled by the other man's appearance that she lurched backwards, nearly tipping over a kitchen stool.

"You're awfully jumpy," was all the other officer remarked.

Baldassare shook his head. "Dr. Quinzel—the Joker is a known homicidal maniac. The police department is willing to offer you protection, but we can't do it here. Would you be willing to move to another location?"

She seemed to seriously consider this—to Baldassare, the question would have been a no-brainer. Stay in comfort at home and be subject to possible rape and murder, or come live in possibly awkward but entirely safe surroundings? But, from the way she was considering, he began to wonder whether comfort was her primary concern.

"Okay," she said at last. "Just let me get my things. I'll hurry… Dr. Varnham is going to be needing your protection a lot more than me."

As she moved off Baldassare didn't question her on this declaration. He was too busy wondering why the Joker had picked her—if she was not his doctor, why would he want to harm her, and not any other random individual on the Arkham staff? There had to be something special about her in the clown's eyes, to warrant this. And she had seemed so surprised… the policeman would have assumed this was because she was as confused about the Joker's threat as he was, but something about her reaction brought him pause. It had seemed to be more than just shock… almost a sense of hurt. Disappointment. But why?

When she came down the stairs, fully dressed and carrying a bag with her things in it, he took the burden from her in an attempt to be gentlemanly. While he did so their eyes met, and she quickly looked away, as if burned.

"Ready to go, _Harlequin?_" said the other officer, with a cheery smile, and Baldassare realized why the man had grinned when he had seen her mailbox: her name was easily transformed into a stock clown character.

Instead of brushing the immature comment off, however, Quinzel only stared at the man, a cold look in her eyes.

"_Don't_ call me that," she snapped, in a tone of voice that expected to be obeyed. "Ever."

Now that was odd. As she swept past him, Baldassare could see her teeth were worrying her lip, and there was a look of distant pain in her eyes. Quinzel's emotions seemed to fluctuate at the drop of a hat.

Yes, he decided, something was indeed very strange about her.

**000 Author's Note 000**

This is the first half of a long rambling monstrosity that I decided to cut in two. The other half, which isn't quite finished, should be posted fairly soon (hopefully in less time than it took me to get this up). I figured at this point it would be easier on the readers (in both patience and eyesight) to have this now, rather than the whole thing. It gets to a point when the chapter is just too long to post in one huge chunk.

But… speaking of huge chunks… wow. I want to thank everyone who reviewed "Jeremiah's Well." I'm surprised at the reaction I got, so I'm teetering on the edge of writing out the next installment. I'm trying not to let that slow me down in this story, though. Thanks to: mm, Ems, andaere, Vanafindiel, Angel Dumott Schunard, Taluliaka, CountryPixie, batfan, Thedarkknight17, Calathiel of Mirkwood, Kyuubikitsune9, Misericorde, Shmellington, vampassassin, & Almost Funny.

A lot of the information about Bruce's childhood actually comes from these wonderful adopted children that I know, who went through some of the same issues, and being in a foster care they were shuffled from place to place. Then all of a sudden they were adopted by this older couple at my church, who gave them an incredible amount of stability and ironed out all their issues. Today they are _beautiful_—there's really no other word I can use to describe them. That's why I'm a big believer in adoption, and I believe that everyone (whether they are capable of having kids or not) should seriously consider adoption of at least one child when they get married. I know I'll probably do it when I get myself a man. XP

But enough advertising! I'm just glad this chapter is over. It was _so_ exhausting to write… I probably could have done some more editing and clipping, but oh well. I just wanted to post it and move on.

Yeah, I know Bruce in the movies is older. I said he was twenty-four in the beginning chapter. Doesn't leave much room for his years of wandering in China, does it? But how else could I get in the dream sequence with him and the Joker? There's a 8-9 year gap between them in this story. We'll see why eventually—but somehow I'm still kicking myself over it. I saw "Batman Begins" and liked how it provides coverage of Bruce's earlier years. So we get to see him as a child, as a troubled young man, as a learner of martial arts, as he takes the first steps as the Batman, and then in TDK as a much more mature individual who's hoping to actually retire the "vigilante" thing. I really liked that.

Also thanks to the reviewers of _Foundations'_ last chapter: Miravisu, Taluliaka, Haladflire65, immortalisforever, Lady Padfoot21, Vanafindiel, CountryPixie, Mickerayla, RedNex, Thedarkknight17, fluffyfg, Calathiel of Mirkwood, Csillan.Rose, & almost funny. You guys rock.

Eat virtual cake! Yummy! :D


	25. Runner

**IF THE FOUNDATIONS BE DESTROYED, WHAT CAN THE RIGHTEOUS DO?**

I don't own Batman. DC Comics does.

Please note that violence will occur in this story, and that less offensive words like "damn" will be used, but more offensive words will be "asterisked" out. Some sexuality will occur but never anything explicit. As of now this story is rated "T"—if any readers feel the rating needs to be raised, please contact me accordingly and it will be.

Here's the other half of last chapter. A lot is happening here, sorry, so you'll just have to pay attention. :(

**Chapter Twenty-Five: Runner**

_Friday, 4:43 A.M._

"What do you mean, 'lockdown'?"

Huerta heard Garcia sputtering as she rounded the corner into the Mayor's former bedroom and now makeshift office. She stopped short when she saw the room was practically overrun by policemen. They were engaged in what looked like a thorough search of the premises: tapping on the walls, tearing off the sheets of the bed, dumping out the contents of Garcia's desk drawers, even poking and prodding at a very unhappy and exhausted-looking old man sitting in Garcia's desk chair.

Well. A dozen policemen ripping apart the Mayor's bedroom. This was a sight you didn't see every day.

Something about that old man was familiar, though. Where had she seen him before? Huerta paused to consider, before realizing that it was none other than Bruce Wayne's butler. What a lucky man he was, being around Wayne all the time. She'd switch jobs with him in a heartbeat. Yes, it was strange that she, a highly educated and well-respected lawyer, should be jealous of a servant to the rich and famous—but when it concerned one _particular_ rich and famous individual, she was jealous of everything from the butler to the speck of dust on Bruce Wayne's shoe. It seemed like everyone—including the Joker—got to be closer to her great obsession than she did, these days.

As disappointing as her life was, she _had_ come into this room for a reason. Yet when she tried to address the Mayor, who was too busy complaining about the policemen's conduct to notice her entrance, almost immediately several firearms whirled around to train on her.

Well. Weren't _they_ trigger-happy tonight?

"For goodness sakes," Garcia objected, "That's the DA, for crying out loud."

"Do you have identification?" one of the policemen snapped. Huerta looked at him like he was an idiot.

"Didn't you _vote_ for me?" she countered, pushing past him. He must have felt the strength in her arms, because he didn't try to stop her again. Wuss.

"Sir," she addressed the Mayor, "as helpful as these men are, I really must speak with you in private. Could you send them outside for a few moments?"

Garcia, always a gentleman, raised a fine eyebrow. "What do you think I've been doing? I've been trying that ever since they got here, but they won't listen!"

What a fine legal mess. The police won't even listen to the Mayor of the entire city any more. Gotham had gone to hell in a hand-basket. And she, with the information she was bringing, should know.

"Sir," she insisted, as Garcia turned his attention from her to an officer who was busy uprooting a potted plant on the windowsill, "This really _cannot_ wait."

"Then tell me whatever, Alejandra," the Mayor sighed.

Ha. As if she'd reveal this to an entire room full of policemen. Although Huerta knew she could be flighty, but even she was not this bad.

Rather than try to argue with him, she quickly stole over to his side, whispering in his ear, "It's about the Dent cases."

Immediately the room fell silent. Huerta wanted to smack herself. No matter whether it was whispered or not, the name of "Dent" was always overheard. It was a sacred name, like that of some secular saint, and everyone treated it with respect. The former DA's death had done more than catapult him into perpetual stardom: it had made him divine, no less than Julius Caesar being murdered by the Senate.

She suddenly remembered why she did not generally share the public's enthusiasm for Dent. His shoes were too hard to fill. Everywhere she went, she was regarded merely as his replacement, a failed attempt at copying the original. Her term of office was like the king who ruled Israel after Solomon—everyone remembers the wisest man who ever lived, but his successor is forever overshadowed by his grandeur. How to live up with expectations? No, no—Dent was hated while still alive, regarded as a martyr while dead: and she, Alejandra Huerta, would leave office being regarded as a failure compared to his greatness, live the rest of her life as a failure, and then, once she was old and dead herself, maybe history would finally recognize her as someone of importance. More important than Dent, anyway. She was like an artist, hated and despised in her own time, revered once gone.

Or, at least, she would be—if the Dent cases weren't in as much trouble as she thought they were.

The "Dent Cases"—even her own work was saddled with that man's name. They were the legal cases of some two hundred mobsters, each charged with enough crimes that could put them away for twenty lifetimes, which remained at court after the fiasco with Lau and the mob's money. For all the trouble that Gotham was currently going through, trying to recover from the Joker's original rampage, the mob currently re-coalescing, and not to mention that _Batman_ character—it was not quite as bad as it could have been, seeing as many of the former mobsters were locked away, unable to contribute their two cents' worth to the violence on the streets.

That was just why she had to see the Mayor.

Without any other prompting, Garcia followed Huerta from the room, and shut the door. The last glimpse inside she saw was the tired, worn face of the old butler in the chair. Now she and the Mayor were alone in the hallway.

"What about them?" Garcia was breathless. He had obviously recognized something was wrong due to her tone of whisper. That was what she liked about her boss: he always came through when times were tough.

"It's just… the Mayor's building," she told him, as quietly as possible. "I had a lot of the information and evidence in the offices up there, the testimonies of Lau, stuff like that. I was looking over them and such… but the Joker blew the place up."

"And?" Garcia prodded. She sighed.

"A lot of it was destroyed."

Garcia sucked in a deep breath. "And?"

"And so…" Huerta hesitated. She really couldn't be blamed for this. How was she supposed to plan for a psychotic clown attack? If not in the Mayor's building, where could that information have been considered safe? So she took a deep breath, prepared for an explosion, and blurted out,

"Some of them are going to walk."

The expected outburst did not occur. Instead, Garcia stared numbly at her for a few moments, before turning his gaze away, rubbing gingerly at the bridge of his nose in a pinching motion.

"How many?" he fairly moaned. "Ten? Twenty? _Thirty?_"

"Actually it's around eighty. Maybe more… I can't quite be certain yet."

The true number of missing case files was more like ninety-three, but she was counting on some of the information to be found, and some of the cases were far enough argued to gain a conviction—_any_ conviction—either way. Eighty-two, however, were in a legal limbo. It was possible that a lot of the information had survived, somehow… but if not, that meant nearly one-hundred hardened mob criminals, with their network of pre-established connections, would be loosed onto the streets of the city. She could not detain men without evidence. This was the great curse—and the great blessing—of the American legal system.

Garcia took a deep, aching breath. For a second Huerta wondered if he might burst into tears—but no, that was far out of character for Gotham's great leader. Then he came close, so close that for a second she had the bizarre notion that he would kiss her. She never wanted to be kissed by a man… except maybe Wayne.

"We can't do this," he said. His voice was barely above the sound of a whisper.

"We don't have a choice," she responded, in the same tone. "No evidence, no cases, equals no incarceration."

The Mayor sucked in another breath. "How long?"

"What?"

"How long can you hold them? Long enough for us to catch that mad clown?"

Huerta considered. "Maybe a week before their lawyers start lodging complaints. Then it will be a case-by-case basis… they'll probably all be gone by this time next month. Some much sooner than that."

Fortunately, the two major cases scheduled for later this week were ones that she had information for. The troublesome ones began next week… and she'd have to explain to the judge why she no longer had any evidence.

"Keep it quiet," Garcia said, almost immediately.

She stared at him. The only word her mouth could form was, "Huh?"

"I said keep it quiet. Imagine the public outcry… the panic if this information were to get out. Eighty mobsters on the street? Dent's legacy destroyed?" Garcia began to ramble, but Huerta was insulted.

_Dent's legacy?_ These were _her_ cases. She'd come in, she'd argued them, she'd fixed the loopholes and the gaps of testimony, and _she'd_ done it without any involvement from that shady Batman character. She, Alejandra Huerta, was going to put the Bat Man on trial, not pander to his psychotic schemes and play along with his little game; it was she who went by the letter of the law. And yet even Garcia didn't seem to appreciate that.

Huerta wasn't quite sure what she was about to do. Maybe correct the Mayor? Maybe stomp out and reveal the whole mess to the press parked outside? Quit her job and leave Garcia scrambling to find an assistant district attorney willing to work while the Joker was loose? These rebellious thoughts swirled in her head, but it was not long before she quashed them.

At that moment, however, another police officer entered the house. She was a short, squat woman, with slightly graying—and balding—hair. Her lips were frozen into a perpetual grimace, and her face was devoid of makeup or upkeep. While Huerta and Garcia were yet standing in the hall, she shuffled through the doorway, her feet banging the floor like terrible fleshy bricks on concrete. The officer stopped before the both of them, eying them warily. Just as disconcerted, they ceased their conversation and eyed her back.

"Marl Rena Jones," she introduced, chomping on a thick cigar. "You the DA?"

Though she didn't quite know what to think, Huerta decided she would be direct with this woman. "Yes?"

"There's been a threat lodged against you by the Joker," the officer drawled. "Do you know where the Joker's defense lawyer is?"

"Peter?" Huerta asked, then frowned. "I'm afraid I don't."

The squat woman turned away, muttering under her breath, and Huerta had the distinct notion that most of her words consisted of four letters or less.

**000 . d . da . dar . dark . dark k . dark kn . dark kni . dark knig . dark knigh . dark knight . 000**

_Friday, 5:08 A.M._

At the third knock, Baldassare was surprised when the door burst open.

"Honey?" the word fell from the woman's lips before she even saw who was calling. When she did, her eyes widened somewhat comically—but Baldassare didn't miss the disappointment contained within them.

"Officer John Baldassare," he offered a hand. "I take it this the Varnham residence?"

"Yes…" the woman said, hesitantly. As she shook his hand, declaring herself to be "Carol Varnham," her free fingers trailed along the door's rim—an anxious, unconscious habit, somewhat akin to the teenage girl biting her nails.

"Is this about my husband?" she asked. "Has something happened to James?"

"Not that I know of," the policeman responded. "Do you mind if I could speak to him? Is he home?"

"I… he… well," she faltered. "No, not now."

At this Baldassare raised an eyebrow. Too many times, in his short yearlong tenure as a police officer, had people attempted to end conversations with that line. Aware that he didn't have a warrant, but also realizing that the woman seemed genuine, he tried to sound unsuspicious as he asked, "May I come in?"

No resistance met his request. The woman brushed her dark brown hair over her shoulder in another unconscious habit, and quickly stepped aside, stuttering a nervous, "Oh, of course!"

The house was quaint, Baldassare decided. Charming. From the entrance foyer he could see a hallway on the right, leading to a living room with a square wine-colored rug. On the left was a set of stairs that obviously led up to bedrooms and other more private living areas. Art on the walls, specific and autumn-themed with the season, seemed to suggest the presence of a housewife who took her home's adornment seriously.

Leaving his fellow officer outside with Quinzel, Baldassare allowed himself to be ushered into a kitchen. The walls there were a pleasantly soft blue, and the tile tabletops clean. Tacked onto the refrigerator was a couple drawings of what looked like animals, but the paper was turning yellow from age, and the artwork was accompanied by a note written in loopy pink marker: _"MOM – went out with Mike, back by curfew."_

Seeing his observation, the woman flushed slightly. "She… uh, is still out. My daughter, I mean."

Great, thought Baldassare, just great. How can I tell you that your family is in danger while your kid is running loose in the town?

"I'll just get to the point, Mrs. Varnham," he began, "Do you know where your husband is at the moment?"

"No—I, he…" she sighed. "You are going to think this is odd, but then again so do I. James came home maybe… six hours ago or so—he's a psychologist," she added quickly, as if afraid he would think it odd for her husband to have been out at such a late hour, "and he spends late nights working with patients, paperwork too, you see."

"I know that he's head of Arkham asylum," Baldassare told her, "Don't worry—he's not in any sort of trouble. It's just imperative that we know where he is."

"That's just the thing," she said. "It was strange, even for him… he came home, undressed, and came down to the living room to watch a bit of news before bed… but then when I next came downstairs, he was saying something about having to leave, and he just kind of… took off."

Baldassare had started to have a sinking feeling in his stomach at the beginning of her explanation—and the woman's last few words confirmed his dread. Varnham had obviously seen the Joker's threat on the broadcast. He had run.

Hell, the cop decided, if I had that clown after me, I might've run too.

Yet as his eyes strayed from the chocolate-haired woman before him, back to the loopy pink script on the fridge's door, a cold sort of feeling settled in his chest. Baldassare had a family of his own: a beautiful wife and a little boy. If there was ever the remotest chance that either of them were in danger… he'd joined the army to fight not only for his country, but also for them, and he'd be damned before he simply ran and left them behind, threat or no threat. What kind of man left his family alone at a time like this? The Joker didn't seem like the sort of person who would think twice about harming innocent civilians.

Still, he had never met this man—it was best to withhold judgments on complete strangers. It wasn't Christian to blame someone you had barely heard of, and Baldassare figured that God had given him enough charity for his reckless actions in the past forty-eight hours. When confronted with such a troublesome revelation, he decided that it was probably best to believe that Varnham, as the Joker's doctor, had gotten enough insight into the clown's psyche for the psychologist to believe that his family wasn't in any serious danger. As… odd as that sounded.

"I think he had some business at the hospital, or something," Mrs. Varnham said, in an obvious attempt to rationalize her husband's rapid departure, although it was clear she wasn't aware of the true reason herself. "He had his cell phone with him… maybe he received a call, an emergency or something."

"Do you have the number?" Baldassare asked, immediately. The woman nodded, somewhat forlornly.

"He… um, hasn't been answering. I was thinking… thinking maybe the battery was dead."

Well. Baldassare might choose to believe the best in people, but he also wasn't foolish enough not to prepare for the worst.

"Did you see any television yourself, Mrs. Varnham?" he asked, a preliminary question to breaking the news of the threat to her.

"No," she said, and her brown eyes clouded with confusion.

With a deep breath, Baldassare proceeded to explain the Joker's broadcast, including the threats lodged against Quinzel and Dr. Varnham. The woman took this information the way he thought she would—shock, followed by a slight panic attack, but then she surprised him: instead of anger at her husband for leaving, she seemed entirely forgiving. Indeed, she even seemed to be concerned that he was in greater danger.

"Oh, my poor James," she kept muttering, so softly and lowly that Baldassare had to wonder if the stress of the situation hadn't overwhelmed her. He managed to convince her to collect her things, and to come with him, Quinzel, and the other officer to the station, where they hopefully could set about finding a way to protect them all from the clown's possible attack on their persons.

As Mrs. Varnham was packing, her daughter—"Michelle"—arrived home, obviously shocked to see a parked police cruiser in the driveway. She took a bit more convincing than her mother: fortunately, although obviously headstrong, she was not idiotic enough to argue with both a parental unit and an insistent policeman.

Together all three headed out to the car, where the mother and daughter squeezed into the back with Quinzel, and Baldassare drove off with his fellow officer in the passenger seat. It was a relatively short ride to the station—not for lack of mileage, but for lack of traffic. The streets were eerily deserted. Strangely enough, it was as if the Joker's re-appearance had triggered some sort of survival instinct in the residents of Gotham: all over the city, workers were calling in sick days, bosses were sending word that the offices were closed, and everyone was checking their locks and loading their home firearms. Gotham was hunkering down for the coming storm—digging in like islanders in preparation for a hurricane. Everyone was waiting for the first shot, the second shot to be heard 'round the world, and all—criminal and innocent alike—were dreading the coming blitz.

For once, it felt like the citizenry were of a united mind… whether this was a good thing, however, Baldassare was unsure. Although the streets looked peaceful in their continual abandonment, underneath this deceptive sheen there was a layer of seething, writhing unrest, like the inner psyche of a dangerous, hot-blooded woman at her wit's end with her verbally abusive lover. Was she ready to walk out the door and begin a new, better life? Or would she shoot him in the head? Which was better for her peace of mind? Which was better for her sanity?

Even the police station was somewhat empty, but this was not for lack of cops currently serving. No sooner had they arrived than Baldassare received a phone call. Marl Rena Jones—she proceeded to explain how the Mayor's building was secure, and that Garcia and Huerta were likewise safe. As for the Joker's defense lawyer, she claimed, nobody quite could say—he was missing, and his whereabouts had probably been recorded down somewhere, but he wasn't in the phone book and the data in the Mayor's building had been largely destroyed or scrambled. They were trying to piece together where everyone was: it simply, hopefully, was a matter of time to find the fellow.

Not the news he had been hoping for, but Baldassare wasn't going to complain, for they were all doing as best they could. As he ended the call on his cell phone, he glanced quickly at his watch. The little seconds hand _tick, tick, ticked_, and suddenly it was six o'clock in the morning. He sighed. Hartridge was on duty.

**000 . d . da . dar . dark . dark k . dark kn . dark kni . dark knig . dark knigh . dark knight . 000**

_Friday, 6:03 A.M._

Lucius Fox was a sound sleeper, and by force of habit he didn't listen to the radio while driving. As a result he'd gotten quite the shock of his life, yesterday, as he had headed into town. It was hard not to see the wreckage of the Mayor's building, and be stopped by the roadblocks. He learned of the misfortune of Councilman Barnes' home, and its odd collapse, through the frantic headlines of the morning newspaper. His favorite column of that day had been typed up by none other than Montana Payton, who seemed hysterical that _she_ had been at that party, and that if _she_ hadn't left when she did, _she_ might have been hurt, too. Such a selfish woman.

Today, however, the streets were uncannily empty, with the exception of some rather brave cab drivers. There was a tension about this situation that Lucius didn't like: he knew that the Joker was rumored to have caused the devastation of the Mayor's building, but he didn't want to believe gossip. Everyone else seemed to have taken the rumor for fact, though, and were acting accordingly.

Not that he could blame them—at the same time, however, he couldn't help but feel surprised that Gotham's citizenry had resorted so quickly to avoiding the threat, rather than facing it straight on. Everyone had witnessed the Joker's acts before, and despite the maniac's best efforts he had been defeated. Lucius, as the Bat Man's accomplice, and the one who had been forced to use the cell phone sonar, knew the price of that victory more than anyone—yet he was confident that the Joker could be stopped yet again. In any case he simply wasn't willing to think that the madman was out and about—regardless of the "Mayor's conspiracy of silence" that Montana Payton had been writing constantly about in the papers. While the collapse of Barnes' home had been startling, that in and of itself was not proof of a psychotic clown at work.

When Lucius stopped at Wayne Towers, however, he had the biggest surprise of his morning.

A very nervous Colman Reese was waiting for him.

**000 Author's Note 000**

Ahhh… a shorter chapter, for once. I about died typing it.

Not really. It just was sort of hard to finish.

Lucius fans may now rejoice. He is officially part of the story. :D

Many thanks to my reviewers: Taluliaka, immortalisforever, Rednex, Almost Funny, Ems, Calathiel of Mirkwood, Mickerayla, Haladflire65, Lady Padfoot21, Padfoot n' Moony, Shmellington, Vanafindiel, CountryPixie, & Heir to the World. I can only say I'm sorry this wasn't up a bit sooner. C;


	26. Preconceptions

**IF THE FOUNDATIONS BE DESTROYED, WHAT CAN THE RIGHTEOUS DO?**

I don't own Batman. DC Comics does.

Please note that violence will occur in this story, and that less offensive words like "damn" will be used, but more offensive words will be "asterisked" out. Some sexuality will occur but never anything explicit. As of now this story is rated "T"—if any readers feel the rating needs to be raised, please contact me accordingly and it will be.

I know this took a while, but I definitely needed a breather. I did plan on getting this out much sooner than now, but oh well. You can have it now. C:

**Chapter Twenty-Six: Preconceptions**

_Friday, 4:23 A.M. (Previously)_

It is said that even Hitler was kind to his dogs.

Bruce had never quite believed this. It was a ludicrous proposal: that someone who stood up in front of crowds, spewing hatred against his fellow human beings—man, woman, and child alike—could love pets but not people. The notion of that maniac actually _caring_ for another living creature was absurd. The world simply didn't work that way. There was a bit of bad and good in everyone, true, but with some people there was so little good in them that it was of no consequence. Some people were just monsters.

Now, however, he had the disconcerting notion that a higher power—the universe, fate, perhaps even God Himself—was mocking him, shoving his preconceived notions at him and rubbing his face in them. What other explanation could there be for his current situation?

He was tired. So, so weary… even after a few hours' worth of sleep, he swayed somewhat on his feet, exhaustion having become a terrible burden on his sagging shoulders. But it was more than that. Simple fatigue wasn't all of what was pressing down on him. The real burden was within: a weight around his heart, an empty, vacuous feeling, like something he had loved dearly had been lost and he knew he would never see it again.

Bruce had felt something akin to this when Rachel had died. But yet even that hadn't been the same. There had been a sense of resignation in her death, of things eventually going to turn out for the better, no matter how terrible they seemed at the moment. No, this current feeling was more a sense of floundering; of deep regret over some great and unforgivable blunder. As if he'd made a terrible mistake and lost a good friend, not to death but to his own stupidity, and that friend was all-too-willing to leave him behind without so much as a glance back.

Some part of his mind warned him, even now. It cautioned about giving in, about allowing the feeling of hopelessness to overwhelm him, and backing down in the face of a threatened deluge. Was this how people in the concentration camps had felt? How selfish of him to think along those lines, as if anything he was experiencing now was remotely comparable to living in a death camp. Nonetheless the association was, in some small way, valid—for he knew that the rest of his life, as short as it would probably be, would consist of nothing more than one torment after another, one petty harassment piled upon another, constant stings from a nest of annoyances and fears and disappointments.

The light within him, the fire that burned and kept his heart from solidifying into total, black ice, was weakening under the storm of rain he'd been forced to endure. Even now it was lingering, though—he refused to put it out. Stubbornness. It was his best quality, and his worst. He did not know when to stop. He did not know if he even wanted to know.

So he was left somewhere in the middle, looking over the precipice, and right now he was best reminded of that old saying: even Hitler was kind to his dogs.

Before him crouched a man who would put the most ardent of skinheads to shame. The clown was on one knee, at such an angle that it was mostly his back and shoulders exposed to the billionaire's sight. Sitting in front of him, however, was what caused Bruce to remember the phrase about the instigator of the second world war: a dog.

Vaguely, from his high school days, Bruce recalled his private tutor forcing him to read a book entitled White Fang, about a wolf up in the Alaskan north that had endured horrible abuse, but that eventually was adopted by a kinder man from the southern states. He remembered very little of it, but one thing that had stuck in his mind was the book's depiction of something it called "the love croon," which happened whenever the wolf was petted by his kind master. It was a wild animal, very fierce, so it didn't wag its tail—but it did growl with pleasure, on a pitch and note that was different from a threatening sound, and it was this growl that was the "love croon." While he hadn't had much experience with dogs, the teenage Bruce had been of the opinion that this little detail was entirely made up, because it didn't make sense that a growl could ever be affectionate.

Now Bruce was willing to admit he'd been wrong, on that small point at least. A growl was the very sound that the Joker's dog was making, right in front of him, but the maniac didn't seem in the least bit intimidated or put off by the sound. Indeed, having experienced the canines' angry rumblings himself, Bruce could definitively tell that this current sound made in the dog's throat was of a different pitch than his own encounter some few hours ago.

How was this possible? The Joker was a demented, utterly insane, psychopathic killer. Yet here the painted man was, crouched to the ground, stroking the beast's fur and scratching behind its ears. Judging from the way the dog kept tilting its head, pushing itself up firmer against the monster's hand, it wasn't in the least bit frightened—indeed, it seemed to be enjoying itself. Why couldn't it have been this friendly last night, Bruce wondered?

"Yah _know_, Brucie," came an utterance from the clown, "_Staring_ is not polite."

"Sorry," the word slipped from his mouth so effortlessly, he barely realized that he'd spoken. Somehow the knowledge that the jester was aware of his presence did not bother him, not like it would have at the beginning of his captivity.

"Ah, no harm done," the monster before him practically chirped. His voice sounded like that of a hyperactive three-year-old, but when the maniac turned on his knee to stare back at the billionaire, his brown eyes held a glimmer of madness in their depths.

Unconsciously, Bruce shuffled back a few steps. The Joker's torn lips pursed—in annoyance or curiosity, the vigilante couldn't tell—and he lifted his free hand to make a "come hither" gesture, flicking his pointer finger in a motion that rather mimicked the twitch of a agitated squirrel's tail. Sucking in a deep breath, the prisoner obeyed. His feet were suddenly made of lead.

He expected to be seized, the moment he was within arm's reach, so he stopped just outside of the clown's range. The Joker did not seem bothered by this.

"Do… you _like_ dogs, Brucie?"

No immediate response was forthcoming. Bruce felt as if he had to gather his remaining strength in order to answer.

"Yeah. Usually."

"Hmm," the clown replied, face impassive. The colorful war paint looked freshly applied, almost wet, glistening slightly in the dim lighting. It gave him an almost ethereal shimmer, making him look all the more out-of-place and unreal. "So. Do. I."

"That's nice." Bruce found his tongue did the communicating for him. He was too tired to control it, anyway.

"Glad you think so," said the maniac, before turning to the animal. "This is Julie. Want to pet her?"

Strange, Bruce mused, I thought all guard dogs were male. Then again, I've never had one.

The animal was looking at him, now, with a hint of suspicion in her eyes but nothing more. It was obvious that she was in tune with her master's wishes: if the Joker was tense, she would expect danger—but if he was calm, as he was now, she seemed willing to endure the presence of this stranger. Bruce regarded her as something almost exotic: a guard dog that did not immediately lunge for his throat. At least he could like that one aspect about her. She seemed, under the Joker's caresses, to be less of a threat and more of a house pet.

Yet at the same time, as he stared at her, he felt the resolve remaining within him falter all the more. This creature, this she-beast, was a killing machine. She was taught to slash and snap, to clamp upon the neck and never let go, digging in her teeth as an unwilling donkey digs in its heels. In his mind he saw his hand descending toward that sharp, black head—then the Joker made one wrong move, and his hand was lost to him forever. That would give him just enough of a shock for the jester to use his knife in the killing stroke. There were a dozen ways that petting the animal could end up being very costly to him, and even while acting as Bruce Wayne with sleep deprivation, the Batman's mind still subconsciously picked up on all the details of the situation.

Not to mention that petting the animal would entail moving _closer_ to the Joker.

"No thanks." His mouth felt dry, chafed with sand.

"You're sure?" said the Joker, his tone not as mocking as Bruce expected it to be. "Ah, well. You… can change your mind la-_ter_. She won't _bite_ ya."

The maniac returned to petting the dog, which yawned languidly under the gloved touch, straining her neck to get the scratching fingers into just the right spot… Bruce stared, fascinated by the interplay before him. Then, almost as quickly as the Joker had turned away, a strange feeling of shame crept up into the billionaire's thoughts. _Staring is not polite_, the clown had told him. The monster had sounded like his mother—too much like his mother for him to ignore the suggestion. Swallowing in an attempt to wet the back of his throat, he cast his blue eyes away from the sight.

They caught on a puddle—a small oval of water, not even an inch deep, trapped in the rough patterns of the asphalt not two steps away. Wherever they were, Batman noted in the back of Bruce's mind, it certainly was damp. This had to mean they were either underground a good ways, or else near a source of free-standing water, enough to humidify the air to the point of condensation. A lake, maybe? There were dozens of parks with little lakes scattered all over Gotham: in his mind's eye he could conjure up a map, and knew that at least five locations were near tunnels…

Bruce almost laughed at himself. What was he thinking? The Joker had obviously not punished him for investigating last night, but who knew how the jester would react to a legitimate escape attempt? Besides, he wouldn't get far; not with his arm in such a state, and not with Giedre still half-conscious even while awake. When he had been rudely awoken by Slink a little more than thirty minutes ago, he'd taken the time to examine the ambassador's eyes in the light. One pupil didn't react to the brightness—it remained wide and inky black, like an ominous mouth announcing bad news. What it meant he didn't know. For all he understood about head injuries, she could be hemorrhaging in the brain and he'd never even realize.

Maybe Dr. Norbert could diagnose what's wrong—this thought came to him suddenly. The doctor was good with trauma, Alfred had said. The idea of turning to Dr. Norbert _now_, of all times, nearly made Bruce laugh once more; but the idea of Alfred sobered him. How was his butler doing? Had the shock of his capture harmed Alfred's health somehow—especially since the old man had been so unwell that he couldn't even attend Councilman Barnes' party? The billionaire was desperate to distract himself from such a depressive line of pondering.

Leaning over slightly, Bruce almost glared down at the puddle, his expression an attempt to regain some of the fierceness that he knew the Batman instilled within his spirit. He ended up faltering when a stranger's face greeted him. Only it wasn't a stranger—instead, it was his own reflection.

There were rims around bloodshot blue eyes, a deficit of sleep and energy; his hair was ruffled, untamed, in hopeless need of a brush; ringed about his lips and framing his jaw was a slight amount of dark shadow. Lifting his left hand—it hurt far too much to move his right—he traced the outline of his face. Small amounts of bristle, barely noticeable to untrained eyes, pricked at his fingertips.

In that moment he was taken back several years to his adolescence, when the fuzz of adulthood had just begun to show on his cheeks: this had been just shortly after Rachel's chest had started bobbing and she'd told him all about wearing a "training bra" like it was a life-changing event (he'd blushed so hard at that topic that she'd teased him for weeks afterwards). Alfred had taken it upon himself—quite naturally, actually, since Bruce had no other male figure in his life aside from his much-despised private tutor—to teach him the manly art of shaving. Originally Bruce had taken one look at the razor, heard his guardian emphasize emphatically that he needed to be careful or he'd cut himself, and had refused to do it.

But he _must_, Alfred had protested, or he'd look scruffy. The younger Bruce had responded that he'd just grow a beard. At this Alfred had chuckled, explained that he was still too young to do that, and that even if he was older he would probably be like his father and have trouble getting a full one, anyway. Later on during his travels, when shaving was a luxury he couldn't really afford, Bruce finally understood what this meant: he was never able to get a beard that covered the entire lower half of his face, but rather only one that bordered his chin and rimmed his mouth.

During his adolescence Alfred's arguments had prevailed, though, and Rachel had noticed the change right away when she had arrived to see him clean-shaven. He remembered now that she'd lifted the long skirt she was wearing to show him how _she_ had already started shaving her legs—it was a motion that only a few years before would have meant nothing to him, but for some reason at that moment had brought him pause. He recalled staring at her, the rest of the day, glancing at her when he thought she wasn't looking. But she had noticed. Rachel always had noticed everything.

"_You keep giving me weird looks,"_ she'd said. _"What's up?"_

His younger self really hadn't known how to respond, except a curt, "_Nothing!"_ and that had only made matters worse. Something in his tone of voice had caused her to stop and gaze at him like he was a puzzle to be solved, and some flame within him—the very same, perhaps, that was threatening to extinguish in the present—had squirmed uncomfortably under her scrutiny. Despite this he couldn't stop staring back. Then, very slowly, he'd found that she was leaning forward, and _he_ was leaning forward, and—

A painful throb in his elbow brought Bruce back to the present, mirrored by another flinch within his heart. Rachel was dead now, he told himself, trying to take the emotion out of the words. Best not to remember such things.

_Best to remember who killed her_, a voice piped up, but he couldn't tell whether it was the Batman or something else. Warily he glanced back toward the clown kneeling only a pace or two away, and found the Joker's eyes on him. He tried to suppress a shudder.

"_Admiring_ yourself?" The jester asked. "Really, Brucie. You're so vain. Still… it _is_ a definite improvement over Wednesday, hmm? Not so… uh, _fancy_ any more. Why, the suit makes you look human. A few things here and there, and you'll look mar_-vel_-ous. Just don't _over_-do it, _'k?_"

This set of statements drew Bruce's attention to his tux, which was ruffled from tossing and turning in pace with the throbbing agony of his elbow, all night long. The once-smooth cloth now needed a severe attempt of salvation at a dry cleaning—he didn't know if the expensive clothing was even salvageable at this point, but he didn't care. He would probably die in it.

"If you say so," he responded tonelessly, though inwardly he found himself sniping that the Joker shouldn't be one to let out fashion advice. After all, the clown was the one who thought Green, Purple, and Red were good bedfellows. Even though the jester had obviously lost his violet-colored suit during his stay at the asylum—and was now forced to content himself with a gray-purple one, which was still more gray than purple—the lunatic had still somehow managed to find a pair of plum gloves.

Not to mention that the monster's personal upkeep was also extremely lacking. His teeth alone were a hideous, dandelion-tinted yellow. Notwithstanding the wet face-paint—which failed to get into the cracks of his face and therefore created a patchwork even when freshly applied—his hair was tinged pine green, streaked with his natural dirty blonde, though it was so greasy at the moment it might as well have been a deep, dark brown. It hung limply around his face in tangled snarls, like a head full of dead Medusa snakes. Lifting a gloved hand from the dog's ears, the clown swiped at the oily strands, pulling them out of his paper-bag colored eyes. Bruce's bloodshot gaze did not fail to catch the way that the lunatic's purple fingers seemed to linger over the new scars in his hairline, tracing almost absentmindedly over the fresh grooves—three of them, each no longer than a half-inch, which disrupted the general outline of his gnarled green mop. If he had not known from personal experience that the scars were there, Bruce would have almost missed them, hidden as they were under the moon-white greasepaint.

There was one thing that the Joker had to have as part of his upkeep, though: he _had_ to shave. His face may have been distorted, cracked all over with spidery scars like a shattered mirror, but it nonetheless did not look whiskery. Bruce allowed himself one moment to cringe inwardly, at the thought of shaving with those horrible, bumpy scars. It must be a chore, he decided, and almost burst out laughing when he had the sudden vision of the clown leaning close to a shiny surface, muttering curses as he carefully maneuvered the razor around the lower half of his face. Maybe the Joker was like him, unable to grow a full beard—although, for the maniac, this was probably a blessing more than a curse.

"Something funny, Brucie?" Joker's quiet whisper came, and Bruce's breath seized up. Did the clown somehow know that the billionaire been making fun of him mentally?

No. The Joker _cannot_ read minds. He cannot read minds. Bruce repeated this to himself, a couple times, before working up the nerve to answer, "Not really."

Both the monster's brown eyes narrowed. "_Honesty,_ Brucie."

It sounded like a reprimand. This was enough to almost make the vigilante scramble back a few paces, but the jester seemed to detect this desire. His plum-covered hand lifted to repeat the "come hither" gesture; as he stood, remarkably, to his full height. He was as tall as Bruce even when hunched over—if the clown stood up straight, the prisoner had to tilt his head slightly upward to look the maniac in the eye. Quite naturally the monster's new posture did not help to make the billionaire feel comfortable.

For a second Bruce considered refusing to step closer. He was out of the clown's reach, just barely—despite his exhaustion, he doubtless was still the faster of the two. Plus, the Joker probably would not anticipate such a blatant disobedience; the playboy might use that surprise to make a run for it back to the common room. This ultimately wouldn't help things, of course, because the jester was obviously the one in control of the situation, and he knew it… but that didn't mean that Bruce had to let the monster know that _he_ knew it, too. In this game it was likely best not to submit to being the mouse, not when one could pretend that one was _also_ a cat.

Would he truly have taken this chance, if the small flame within him had been but a little bit stronger? He didn't know—but, as it was, no sooner had the thought of refusal occurred to him than it vanished with a puff of smoke. The flame was not big enough to catch fire.

One step was all it took to bring himself within the monster's reach. His expectation to be seized immediately was again left unfulfilled. The maniac tilted his head, scrutinizing Bruce like a parrot regards a peanut, and the younger man let his sapphire eyes trail to the floor. It felt like he was being interrogated, even though the clown remained silent. Just as wordlessly, the jester lifted an arm, and Bruce heard the rustle of cloth—this gave him a warning, but not enough. He jumped, weary muscles tensing, as the arm wrapped around his shoulder, a movement no different than that of two business buddies joking around as they reminisced about their latest company deal.

Bruce expected the clown to mock him. Or, at least, to mention how jittery he was. Who wouldn't be upset or afraid, this close to such a maniac? And he had to admit it—he _was_ afraid. The little candlelight within him shuddered under the cruel weight of that arm. Somehow he managed to keep breathing. He stared at the floor like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

The Joker said nothing, however, aside from, "C'mon. Let's… take a _walk_."

With that the jester's feet began to move, away from the common room's light, and Bruce found he was powerless to resist. On his right shoulder the gloved fingers began to twitch, reminding him of how they had been rapping against his tux only a few hours ago—they seemed to be anticipatory, longing for something in their grasp. The billionaire had the sudden mental image of there being a knife in the clown's sleeve, one that in the dark was slowly slipping down to his palm and into those eager digits, before pressing against his throat. _Bon voyage, Brucie, give the devil my regards._

But, some part of him tried to rationalize, that wouldn't make sense. Why take him into the dark to commit murder? Yet it didn't have to be logical—this _was_ the Joker. Nothing had to have a reason with him.

"I don't _want_ there to be any bad feelings _between_ us, Brucie," the monster suddenly intoned, and the line sounded so rehearsed that the vigilante wondered if the clown hadn't practiced it many times over. It was too cliché to be something thought up on a whim. "Y'see… I, uh, didn't _mean_ to bring you along. It just sort of… happened. An _oops_, that's all—you understand, right? Made any mistakes in your own life?"

"Plenty," the billionaire responded, softly. His thoughts of Rachel's smiling face were brought to an abrupt end when his ears recognized the slapping sound of hurried paws. The dogs were coming.

A low growl came from somewhere his left, on the other side of the jester; Bruce nearly bolted. As if sensing his desire the gloved hand clamped down on his shoulder, painfully. It sent a throb up from his elbow—in the shadows, he was glad that the Joker couldn't see him bite his lip.

"Easy Julie-girl," came a disturbingly soothing coo from the clown. "We're all friends here."

Yeah right, Bruce wanted to cackle, bizarrely—we're _so_ friendly, those mutts tried to kill me last night! Gonna let them finish the job? Yet his tongue did not vocalize this, fortunately enough. He didn't want to know the Joker's response to such a suggestion. Perhaps the monster really had nothing special planned, and he might choose to take such advice.

Three more steps forward, and the dogs were upon them.

It was too dark to see properly, so only shapes and shadows were circling about the two men, yet in the pitch black Bruce's other senses were heightened. He could feel the air swirling as the shadows fenced them in, smelled wet fur clinging to lithe bodies, damp from the heavy air; worse even than that was the proximity of the clown, who obviously did not bathe and so had such pungent body odor that the vigilante could only compare it to the thugs he met during his worldly travels. People in other cultures were not afraid to smell—and many of them did, some to such excess that could shock any American to the core.

And, for some reason—even though his sleeve—the Joker also felt blisteringly hot. Alfred would have declared it to be a fever. Maybe such a high temperature was normal for the clown, the result of being such a high-energy individual, or possibly he was actually quite sick. All the same, the billionaire couldn't help but question: was this warmth because the Joker was burning up, or because Bruce was freezing cold? Within the prisoner the flame of his heart was wavering; without its heat, he felt as if he was slowly solidifying into a brittle sheet of ice, ready to be shattered.

"All right, all _right_… y'all _know_ who it is, y' mangy pack; _back off_, sweeties!" came the clown's voice, accompanied by the scuff of a boot stamping the ground. At this the prowling masses seemed to back away—but one of them strayed closer, brushing up against Bruce's leg. That was too much. Before he realized what he was doing, with a jerk the billionaire had broken his captor's hold and taken several steps back, halted only by the Joker's sharp reprimand.

"_Brucie!_ Just where do y'think _you're_ going?"

Being addressed so directly, and in such a commanding tone, brought the vigilante to an immediate stop. Hesitant to look even though he knew he couldn't see a thing, he was surprised when he turned and found himself staring through the dark into a ghostly, bleeding face. It was a sight that made him take yet another step back, shock almost overwhelming him, but then he realized what it was. The Joker had a flashlight—he held it in the same hand that had been draped over Bruce's shoulder, casting the beam upward. In the silhouetted light his face looked like a polished skull, with blood dripping from its splintery teeth.

"C'mere," the clown said. No hand movement accompanied the order.

Once again Bruce thought about refusing, but the feeling of a presence behind him made him turn to look. He was hesitant to let the clown out of his sight, so he didn't twist all the way—he found himself glancing back at the shadowy head of a dog, his own body blocking most of the glow from reaching it. Enough still got through to light up the animal's eyes: they were greedy, gleaming orbs, about the size of pennies, and were so focused on him that he doubted they could see anything else. There was just enough shine from the flashlight to highlight the strings of spit dribbling from the corners of its hungry mouth.

"_Brucie_," came the clown's voice again, and this time it had an edge that the billionaire certainly didn't like. "I _mean_ it."

Afraid to step closer—yet more afraid to disobey—he slowly made his way back toward the jester, who regarded him solemnly. The minute Bruce was just outside the clown's reach, just as he was about to halt at that minimal distance, the Joker took an additional pace toward him, reaching with his free hand to seize the billionaire's left arm. A quick tug, and they were standing shoulder to shoulder, facing further down the tunnel together.

"Now, young man," the jester chided calmly, paternally, "Don't go, uh, running off in the _dark_. There's bad things out there. What_ever_ would I tell your mother if you got hurt, _hmm?_"

No sooner had that sentence left the clown's mouth than the crimson lips twisted into a garish grin. Suddenly the Joker was no longer fatherly—he looked like an impish teenager, on a camping trip far from home.

"You like _stories_, Brucie?"

A slight tightening of the hand on his arm told Bruce an answer was necessary. "Yeah."

The clown shook his head, erratically, back and forth. "Not very talkative today, I see. Ah… well. _I'll_ tell you one."

In his hand the beam of light dipped, pointing toward the floor. Bruce held back a gasp.

It was the body of a dog—the same dog, the billionaire realized, that he'd fought a few hours previous. Stale blood coated the square black head, pooling around the limp carcass like crimson sauce. The nose was bashed in so far that it was unrecognizable as such. Obviously the body wasn't old enough to truly stink, yet, but no sooner had Bruce's eyes alit upon the sight than his nose picked up a coppery tang, something that before had been hidden under the bitter stench of the jester's sweat and grease. Prowling behind it, as if afraid to get too close, fellow canines sniffed at the remains cautiously, like it was something mysterious and unfathomable.

"Now, _this_ old gal," the Joker said, his voice having an unnatural quality to it, "was named Rebecca. '_Becca_ for short."

Bruce said nothing. Inside his chest his heart had begun to throb, painfully. What he hadn't noticed before, now seemed agonizingly all too apparent: the overwhelming smell of blood left a metallic taste in his mouth. He tried to swallow and only ended up coating the back of his throat with it.

"We called her, ah, after her _former_ owner," the clown added.

A shiver worked it's way up Bruce's arm, as he tried not to think of whatever had probably happened to said owner.

"Applejack's _girl_friend," continued the jester, seemingly not noticing the billionaire's tremble, "sold her straight to us, already trained and _every_thing. She was the first one I bought when I was out of… _well_, out of the _madhouse_."

Abruptly the maniac paused, as if he hadn't been intending to mention Arkham and was now chiding himself for doing so. In some way Bruce had the strange feeling that he could sympathize. There were things that he didn't like to talk about, either.

"She was a bit _sick_ at the time, see... Applejack's gal didn't _want_ her anymore," the Joker began again, "So I didn't want to set her out to work right… aha, right off the _bat_." A low giggle came out of the clown's throat, before being subdued. "I let her, uh, stay in the main rooms where it's a lit_tle_ warmer. She used to curl up at my feet at night… very _toasty_."

He paused once more, but his next sentence sounded strained. "I liked her."

Such human sentiments—for a second, Bruce forgot who was speaking. When awareness that it was the clown returned, he had to fight to stop himself from shaking his head, a wave of nauseating denial sweeping over him. Surely he was being mocked. Surely. The Joker could not be this human. Monsters were not men.

Were they?

Cautiously, unable to look at the corpse any longer, he let his gaze wander over to the clown's face. Glow from the beam of the flashlight only served to underline the deep gouges in the jester's skin, the rough lumps on his cheeks that no amount of face paint could hide. It seemed as if, realizing that such horrible marks could not be concealed, the maniac had chosen instead to draw more attention to them. They were as red as the bloody carcass on the ground, the crimson serving as a spotlight to draw the eyes toward the grooves and the split lips, which even as Bruce watched were whetted by a darting tongue. The monster appeared to revel in his misshapen form.

"But," the clown said, "she got bet_ter _soon enough. And I sent her out here—_y'know_, to make sure we were all _safe_ and _sound_."

The movements of his mouth were hypnotic, fascinating in their grotesqueness, like a slug or a creepy insect that one had found in the windowpane. He was no different than a dying animal: no matter how sorry one felt for it, no matter how one wanted to look away and forget about it, one's gaze could not leave its heaving sides until long after they were still—and one's memory of the event would last far longer than that.

"_Then_ what do you suh_-pose_ happened, Brucie?"

Recognition of two things came to the billionaire. The first was that the topic of conversation was straying dangerously close to his own actions the night previous; when Bruce Wayne, playboy extraordinaire, had _somehow_ been able to beat a dog half to death (now, it seemed, _fully_ to death), a feat worthy of the Batman and hence dangerously close to breaking his cover. The second was that the gloved hand on his arm, rather than tightening, was instead loosening its grip. While he knew immediately how to react to the first—he should attempt, as best he could, to steer the topic away from such a dangerous place—he had no idea how he should feel about the second.

Bruce's mouth worked but the words did not feel like his own. "Why are you asking me? You're the one telling the story."

A gargled laugh came from the clown, and the hand on the vigilante's arm released, before slapping his back heartily. "_That's_ more like it, Brucie!"

_More like what?_ the billionaire wanted to ask. But he kept silent.

"Y'see, m'boy, I'm willing to _bet_…" the clown's brown eyes rolled, landing on the vigilante's face, slashing at his flesh in ways more worse than sharp little knives, "that _you_ know more about what, uh, _happened_… than _I_ do."

Still Bruce said nothing. The Joker continued to eye him, almost as if examining him for some sort of flaw. He bit his lip, even though he knew that with the glow of the flashlight the jester could obviously see him do so. What would the clown do about his stubborn silence? Bruce didn't know if he could withstand being pressured for very long. Within him the flame was not large enough to weather any rough gale. Already he had the strange desire to fall on his knees, perhaps even onto his face—in the same position as he had been in before the Joker just a few hours before—and admit to trying to escape, to being the Batman, to everything. The only thing that stopped him was the return of the jester's hand to his arm: it held him up like a chain from the ceiling, and he was unwilling to break the connection—what if that made the Joker angry? The maniac had already put up with a lot from him in the past few minutes.

"You don't want to tell me, _do_ you?"

The Joker's question was more of a statement. It was a cracked whip, breaking the silence. Bruce shook his head in affirmation; the clown tilted his. Absentmindedly the billionaire noted that the jester was hunched over once more. Whether this was because he wanted to be at the vigilante's eye level, or because it simply was a more relaxed posture for the monster, he didn't know.

"Did you do something _bad_, Brucie?"

This question was spoken soothingly, so much so that the prisoner had trouble comprehending that it had come from the maniac's mouth. The red lips had moved, and the words had reached his ears, but his brain did not connect the two. Before he realized it, Bruce had already nodded.

There was a new glimmer in those brown eyes, a certain solemnity in the purse of the red lips.

"It's okay. You didn't _mean_ to, right?"

The purple hand patted his shoulder, then, almost a comforting gesture. "'Becca was being… _inhospitable…_"

"I went out into the dark," it sounded like his own voice, but the confession had not been formulated in his mind before it exited his vocal chords. Bruce felt like he was not really there, as if he was only a passive observer, watching Wayne and the Joker have a discussion that could very well mean the end of Gotham's Prince… but, somehow, he did not think that the conversation would finish with violence. Somehow, this time, he found that he trusted the Joker would not lash out at him—how he got this notion or why he suddenly received it _now_ he had no idea. For some reason he had the impression that he could have told the monster anything at this moment, and still the jester would not be angry.

"That you _did_, that you _did,"_ the clown murmured, his eyes now hooded. "And you won't misbehave _again_, will you?"

To this Bruce had no reply. He could find no words. The sputtering flame in his heart had trapped him between _yes_ and _no_—answering the one would have required it to be larger, a bonfire of rebellion, something that it could not be; answering the other would by necessity put it out, and still the billionaire's stubbornness clung to its light. Bizarrely, the Joker seemed to understand.

"Glad we had this little _talk_," he said, tone slightly dismissive. "Maybe _some_time you can think up the _ending_ of our little story, _hmm?_ Hopefully not too long from now? I would, ah, very much like to know what you did to our poor 'Becca. I promise I won't be _mad_, Brucie—even the best of us do bad things sometimes."

_He's letting this go?_ Bewildered, Bruce's mind only repeated that one thought over and over. _He has me cold, and he's letting this go? Why is he being so nice?_

The flashlight gave a click as it was shut off, and the Joker's hand carefully spun the billionaire around, leading him slowly and quietly back the way they had come. Bruce gave no resistance, aside from stumbling slightly in his shock. As they moved onward they left the dogs behind; even Julie remained in the darkness. Up ahead the light from the main room seemed to beckon them closer.

_What just happened?_ Bruce's mind reeled. _What sort of game is this?_

Still the clown was silent. Even when Bruce nearly tripped on his face, not bothering to watch where his feet landed, and the jester had to tighten his grip slightly to hold him upright—even then no giggles came, no mocking laughter. This was beyond bizarre—perhaps, the billionaire wondered, he was having some sort of peculiar dream? But what dream had the smell of wet dog, or of damp asphalt, or the stench of a man who needed several successive showers? It had to be real.

So many successive oddities came to him, that Bruce began to question his own perceptions of things. Maybe the Joker was mocking him, and he simply wasn't realizing it. Or maybe the clown, having decided to question him beforehand, was now leading him back to the main rooms to have him killed. Why, then, did he feel as if both these options were wrong? The jester had to be up to something.

It was not possible for the Joker to be honestly kind or gentle, not in any way. He was a monster and not a man, Bruce believed; yet, he found himself questioning, isn't it true that all monsters at one time _were_ men? Bruce himself had wrestled with morality, his rules of "no killing," and when he thought back to such times he wondered if it was possible for him to have chosen wrongly. A flash of memory came to him—Ducard had just pronounced him ready to lead the League of Shadows, and the prisoner forced to kneel before him. Was it possible that he could have chosen differently than he did, that he could just as easily killed that man in cold blood, without a trial and without the right to deal death by force of law? Thinking back to that event, Bruce was startled to realize that it was.

What a disconcerting thing to reflect about. This was something that Bruce recognized that he'd been avoiding mentally for perhaps most of his adult life. Only the most trying of times had caused him to question his own roles in events: Rachel's death, his echoing question to Alfred—_Did I bring this on her?_—followed him now, dogged his footsteps like the canines left back in the dark. He'd killed a dog. Beaten it, left it to bleed to death. Granted, it was just an animal. But it was _life_, too—how much more a step was it to kill a man? Bruce knew he had the ability, the raw power, to do such a thing—and until now, he'd refused even to consider it, except in his darkest nightmares.

And if it was possible that he could be evil, could turn evil, what did this mean for those who were already evil? Was not the opposite also true? Hitler was kind to his dogs. The Joker, if he wished, could be kind to his dogs as well—and, as the clown had just demonstrated, this kindness could be extended to his captives. Hadn't the Joker warned Bruce about Giedre's danger of being raped, despite that he was supposed to be an unfeeling monster? Maybe there was no such thing as a true monster anyway.

_Don't think like that_, some part of Bruce snarled, deep within him. It was a faint voice, very weak, but fierce nonetheless. Was it the part of him that was the Batman? He didn't know for sure.

_You've seen him kill two of his own men in the past day and a half—he _is_ a monster_, the voice continued, but it faded out. Within Bruce the flame flickered lower, as he recalled once more the sight of the Joker petting that dog, the way the two of them seemed to enjoy one another's company.

Together the clown and his captive stumbled into the light of the main room, the jester practically dragging the younger man along. Bruce allowed himself to be pulled, like a puppy on a leash. It felt disturbingly good not to fight every step, not to care where he was headed. He allowed his eyes to rove around the room; they spotted Applejack, blonde hair askew, sitting in a fold-up chair and reading a newspaper. The headlines flashed over Bruce's consciousness. At first he did not understand them; then a hiss of displeasure from the Joker, a quickly drawn breath signaling his utmost anger, brought Bruce's mind back into sharp focus.

Applejack also obviously heard the sound, for he lowered the paper just enough to peer over the rim, and paled. Bruce squirmed uncomfortably when the jester's grip on his arm turned to a steel clamp, squeezing like one of those blood pressure testers at the doctor's.

"PUT IT _AWAY_, YOU IDIOTIC _TWIT!_" the clown roared, but even though Applejack hastily sat on the offending object, it was too late. The headlines were burned into Bruce's memory.

**JOKER HOLDS PRINCE OF GOTHAM HOSTAGE; OTHER VICTIMS SAFE, COMMISSIONER IN STABLE CONDITION**

Commissioner. Stable condition.

Gordon was alive.

His feet came to an abrupt halt, and he didn't have the presence of mind to be thankful that the Joker did not hurry him along. Instead the maniac seemed to withdraw from him, letting go of his arm and stepping toward the goon, who cowered pitifully. The enraged yelling that ensued was mostly lost to Bruce. His consciousness was much too focused on trying to process the new information. Gordon's face, the brief flash of pain that had encompassed his friend's features as the police officer fell to the floor, came to Bruce with startling clarity.

It had been gnawing at him, he realized. Once before, during the clown's last rampage, Gordon had "died"—in reality, it was a faked death, something that Bruce had previously thought was completely out of character for the older man—and while not as affecting as Rachel's death had been, Bruce had nevertheless mourned in his own way. When Gordon returned he understood the man's reasons for doing it. To protect Rachel and Alfred, Bruce himself would have been willing almost to fake anything. But at that party, with the screaming guests in the background, Bruce had known—_known_—that this time the shot was for real. That this time, if Gordon fell and did not move, he had thought that the commissioner was dead. Dead because _he_ had the foolishness to allow himself to be taken hostage.

_He didn't want me to know_, Bruce's thoughts whirled, trying to settle on an emotion—betrayal was not the one he would have picked, because he didn't trust the clown in the first place, but it was nonetheless a bitter feeling. _The Joker wanted me to think the police commissioner was dead, because of me… he hasn't let me sleep, either, making Slink wake me up this early in the morning just to talk… taking me to see that dog and feeding me that bull about how he liked her… acting nice. _An act. It was all an act! A ploy, part of yet another sick game. He wasn't laughing.

The clown was trying to break him.

Finally it seemed as if the jester had stopped his rampage. Applejack was still alive, surprisingly, though considerably more bruised after having been dealt several wild kicks. The Joker's eyes were on Bruce now, searching his exhausted face, but the billioniare didn't try to hide his anger. Let it show. Let that psychopath know that he was mad as hell—and that he wasn't giving in.

"Ah, Brucie," the Joker said, clicking his tongue, though his brown eyes shone with something resembling admiration, "I just _knew_ you couldn't be fooled for long… it, uh, was _fun_ while it lasted, _hmm?_"

Not so much, Bruce wanted to say, but he held the words back. Already he could feel a fire swelling up in his chest. The little candle that his stubbornness had refused to let die was now roaring forth, burning with the intensity of his hidden rage.

He would not be lied to again.

**000 Author's Note 000**

All I can say after this chapter is that the Joker is one crafty and manipulative son-of-a-something. And it took me an extra-extra-extra loooooooong chapter to show that, too. 8,000+ words! I'm tired out, now. XP

I'm _**BACK**_! It feels so long… probably because it was. I have lots of thanks to give to those who have stuck with this story. Y'all are amazing, as are those who read the second installment of Jeremiah's Well.

Many thanks to those who have already given such incentives: Haladflire65, vampassassin, RedNex, Miravisu, Vanafindiel, , Shmellington, Almost Funny, Mickerayla, The-Other-Not-So-Golden-Trio, Padfoot n' Moony, Taluliaka, CountryPixie, Thedarkknight17, Rebell, Endgame65, patience (twice 0.o), XxJagzxX, xambivalencex, Gah!, luanee, & OutcastToReality (again, twice ;D). Y'all make writing worth it. Give yourselves a hand.

I've already started on the next chapter; it should be out a little after Christmas (and, by the way, MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL!! :D).

By the way, this one chapter is also dedicated to all those who still have TDK fever. Long live the Dark Knight fandom! GO BUY THE DVD! DON'T WAIT FOR CHRISTMAS MORNING! XD


	27. Brandy

**IF THE FOUNDATIONS BE DESTROYED, WHAT CAN THE RIGHTEOUS DO?**

I don't own Batman. DC Comics does.

Please note that violence will occur in this story, and that less offensive words like "damn" will be used, but more offensive words will be "asterisked" out. Some sexuality will occur but never anything explicit. As of now this story is rated "T"—if any readers feel the rating needs to be raised, please contact me accordingly and it will be.

Long time no see, readers. I'm happy to be back. :)

A shortie this time.

**Chapter Twenty-Seven: Brandy**

_Friday, 3:36 P.M._

During the immediate hours after his revelation, Bruce had lingered in the cavern of the common room, avoiding the Joker's proximity as much as possible. For his part, the clown seemed willing to allow the billionaire this respite from his overwhelming presence. Whether this was because he was attempting to still play the "good cop" game, or because he desired this time to come up with some new scheme, the younger man didn't want to know.

The first chance he had, Bruce slipped back into Giedre's room. This happened to be when he was given breakfast: with a characteristic hiss, Slink shoved a bowl of the oatmeal gruel at the billionaire, and slid—rather than nodded or jerked—his bald head in an almost reptilian gesture, indicating the room where Giedre lay. Bruce did not need to be told verbally what the gray man wanted; if his interpretation of what Slink meant was different than what the pale man intended, then the vigilante was willing to suffer for it. Taking the bowl, he quickly nabbed a spoon and rushed through the doorway.

Giedre was asleep. Her head, dark hair tousled, lay heavily on the single pillow, her breathing deep. Glancing cautiously down at her, Bruce found both of her chocolate-brown eyes were shut, pupils motionless, signifying a lack of dreams. For a moment he debated waking her; then, deciding that her rest was more important, he chose to let her lie. The billionaire thought about leaving the food and utensil on the bed beside her… but he realized that he really didn't want to go back out into the common room anyway, so he might as well stay and keep it for her. Balancing the cooling bowl lightly on his fingertips, almost reveling in the warmth he found there, he cautiously lowered himself on the empty side of the bed, propping his shoulders up against the wall. Giedre's back was toward him, her sides rising and falling with each methodical breath. Fortunately he hadn't woken her.

She looked so helpless, asleep and lying there. Concern rippled through the vigilante: didn't she realize that they were both in constant danger down here? What if someone had come into the room while he'd been out talking to the Joker? Giedre would be easy prey in any case, with her injury. Being asleep could only make an attack even easier.

Still, he couldn't deny that there was a certain peacefulness in her slumbering state. The world and its worries did not matter to her, not now… he realized he was slightly jealous. Bruce also found that he had to quash some amount of guilt: sleep was what the Ambassador needed, but it had been Bruce himself who had probably denied it to her all night long, for he'd tossed and turned on his side of the bed, writhing with the rhythmic ache of his elbow, until Slink had rudely barged in a little before four in the morning and forced him out the door to see the game-playing clown.

Even to think of the Joker sent waves of nauseous anger up Bruce's stomach and chest—anger at the jester for lying to him like that, and nausea that he'd almost allowed himself to be mislead. Well, he resolved, it wouldn't happen again. Bruce Wayne, fop though he was, still had enough of the Batman in him to learn from his mistakes.

His watch read around three thirty when the room's door opened again. Blinking at the onslaught of light, the vigilante was surprised to see not Slink or the Joker, but rather the girl who had held the camera during the Joker's video. Her long bleach-blonde hair was—if possible—even more unruly now, coming as close to tangled dreadlocks as a Caucasian female naturally could. On her head the ratty baseball cap was tilted ludicrously to the side. The hoop earrings appeared ridiculously large, threatening to bump against her shoulders. There was a bored look on her face, like that of a teenager dragged to her father's office party when she could have been hanging out with her friends. Considering that she herself looked to be around seventeen, such a comparison was not altogether off, Bruce supposed.

"Soooo…" she said, her voice's tones the same as a person who, by merely whispering, could make herself heard across a room, "the famous Bruce Wayne."

"Yeah," he said. "And you are?"

"Brandy."

"Ah," he responded. "That's a… an unusual name."

"Well _I_ picked it," she rolled her eyes, shutting the door, and without any regard for the sleeping ambassador practically threw herself down onto the bed, her posture hunched over. She looked like a monkey… a monkey with long, curly hair.

Giedre groaned, shifted, but—to Bruce's immense relief and concealed concern—didn't wake. Did this mean something was wrong? Or perhaps she was simply too tired for even a surprising jolt to wake her. After all, Bruce's arrival hadn't disrupted her sleep, either.

The billionaire's attention switched back to the girl. Brandy was eying him through the corners of her vision. Sizing him up. And while the careless scorn of a spoiled American teen was obviously present, there was something malicious in her gaze that brought him slight pause. However she, noticing that he was observing her as well, turned to the ambassador.

"Is she okay?" Brandy asked, lifting a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. A futile attempt; the thick mop could not be tamed, not by the baseball cap and not by her motion. It was a wonder that the hair hadn't somehow snarled around the hoop earrings, growing up and ensnaring them like vines do the sides of old brick houses.

"I don't know," Bruce answered truthfully. She cocked an eyebrow at him, as if to say, _of course you don't._

"Oh well. At least you're feeling better, huh? Better than last night anyway. Boss was upset that you didn't crack for the camera—I had a bet that you wouldn't, though. You earned me fifty bucks last night."

Time to act the arrogant playboy, Bruce's mind warned. "You're welcome."

A smug look appeared on the girl's face. "Yeah, well, if you _had_ had a meltdown, it might'a made my job with the networks a bit more worthwhile, ya know? What's the point of bustin' in if nothin' special happens, huh? I can see why boss was upset."

Bruce's mind filed these comments away, and his voice was deceptively timid when he asked, "Your _what_ with the networks?"

"My _job_ on them," Brandy said, haughtily. Her chin raised as she spoke, smugly, probably without her conscious realization. "Dumb rich people like you wouldn't understand. Computer business."

"Like hacking?" Bruce said. She shrugged.

"Hey, it was a seventeen-year-old German kid who made the Sasser Worm, pretty boy. We young people are out'ta you old folk's league," her lip curled. "It's a wonder how you keep all that money o' yours safe, with everyone grabbin' at it."

It sounded like a threat, but Bruce decided to play dumb. He flashed a dazzling smile. "Well, how'd you like a job at Wayne Enterprises, then?"

She looked at him as if he'd just offered her a twenty to strip for him, but before she could put her obvious distaste into words the doorway was flung open again. This time it was a far more nightmarish figure than the plump girl at the foot of the bed: a clown seemed to straddle the light pouring into the dark and cramped space, looking for all the world like he was at a rodeo and ready to face a charging bull. Judging by the grin on the painted face, Bruce supposed, perhaps that indeed was an apt comparison.

"Brandy-_girl_ and Brucie-_boy_… making _friends,_ are we? Good."

A single stride was all it took for the maniac to be in the center of the room.

"Though I must say, _pets_, that I really don't want any, uh, _kittens_. So be responsible, okay?"

The painted eyebrows were waggled suggestively at this comment, and Bruce felt a cold sickness crawl up into his stomach. Did the clown truly think he was that much of a playboy that he would want to seduce an underage girl?

On the bed Giedre groaned, and the monster's brown eyes flickered toward the Ambassador for a mere second; long enough for the billionaire to instinctively shift his position, blocking the agonized woman from view. This was unfortunately such a protective move, not unlike a mother wolf shielding her cubs, that it practically guaranteed the continued gaze of the predator watching. There was a new hint of something in the Joker's eyes—a vicious, feral look that caused a shiver to run up Bruce's spine. He hid his reaction surprisingly well, though. Both his hands clenched into fists, despite the throbbing agony that such a simple motion caused his right arm. In his natural fight-or-flight response it seemed as if the smallness of the room had wiped the latter from his mind's subconscious, and he was ready at the slightest provocation to launch himself at his tormentor.

"Well, well, _well_, how have you liked your _down _time, my lovely _pet?_" the jester purred, and for a second Bruce had the disturbing notion that the clown was talking to him—almost flirtingly. Fortunately the billionaire found this notion was quickly dispelled, as the Joker reached over to pat Brandy on the head. She treated him with a bored look, as if he was a source of annoyance that she had to tolerate for the sake of a greater good.

Her response was still surprisingly chipper. "Sure, Boss. I mean, I've held up my end of the plan. Jus' get me there."

"Sooner than you thi_nk_," the Joker responded, before dismissing her with a wave of a purple hand. She left the room without question, her thick frame not at all posing any trouble as she moved past him, for his wiry form was thin enough to allow her to maneuver in the tight space.

For a moment the Joker stood there, eyes slightly glazed, looking thoughtful—and Bruce had the sudden notion that the chaotic thoughts swirling in the green head were focused upon some horrible end that was someday destined for that girl. But, if the monster truly desired to hurt her, whatever was holding him back? Perhaps she was important for some reason: yet Bruce, watching the jester's face, had no doubt that as soon as that girl was _no longer needed_…

"Soooo_ooo_, kiddies," the jester drawled, stapling his purple fingers together. They shook with merry anticipation. "How's for a night… er, _day_… out on the _town?_"

So it was daytime, then, Bruce realized. He glanced at his watch, reading the glowing "3:41" only with difficulty in the glare. He tried to count back. He was kidnapped on Wednesday evening, and it had become Thursday midnight just before he and Giedre had been shut up in this room. Then they had been allowed out for some breakfast, and then he'd gone out into the dark near midnight Friday. Friday. It had to be Friday, nearly four o'clock in the evening…

But… _"out on the town"?_ Bruce tried to hide the grimace that threatened to appear on his face. Surely whatever the clown had planned, it would not be pleasant—for anyone involved. The billionaire had the feeling that he'd be struggling to keep the jester from killing innocents before long.

"Do we really have to go?" he asked, although he knew the answer. The Joker didn't disappoint him.

"Ah-_ha!_ Brucie _dah_-ling, sometimes _grown-ups_ have to do things they don't, uh, _want_ to do. When you're big and strong like _daddy_, you'll understand."

The clown's hands began making odd motions, fingers tucked in except for the pointer, and he was flicking his wrist in what was almost mimicry of his previous a "come hither" gesture. Except, Bruce realized, it wasn't so much a "come here" as a "stand up." So he did. The gleam in the Joker's eyes brightened.

"See there, _Brucie? _ We do _understand_ each other. Come along, now."

With one last glance at the huddled form of the ambassador, Bruce stepped forward; yet when he turned his head back around and found that he'd nearly collided with the motionless Joker, he nearly let out a yell, scrambling backward.

"Tsk _tsk_, Brucie," the clown chided, not the least bit discomfited by their near crash. "We can't leave _sissy _behind."

"What?" the billionaire asked, not quite sure what the monster meant—but the word no sooner left his mouth than understanding came to him. His elbow gave a ferocious pang, mirroring that in his heart.

"You can't possibly expect to move her," he said, shifting back so that he stood before the bed, shielding the unconscious woman on it. But the clown merely shrugged.

"'Fraid so," the maniac pronounced, his voice oddly normal. "We plan to… uh, _how_ to say this…"

Without warning the Joker leaned forward, his dark form dominating the billionaire's sight, the full height of the older man combined with the psychotic splash of color from his facepaint serving to make him all the more menacing. Though Bruce couldn't see it—his vision being dominated by the jester's yellow teeth and smacking, gory lips—he was certain that the monster's fingers were curling tightly, strung through with tension.

"We're gonna… _Go,_" the clown hissed, sucking in his bulging cheeks, flushing them back out with his next words, "for a _ride_. Understand?"

Bruce found himself torn by contradictory desires. One part of him wanted to back down, but he quashed his fear. If he was going to ever submit to the jester's will, it would not be because he was afraid but because it was expedient. Now was not the time for him to be heroic, he knew—but it was a battle with himself. Hadn't he just promised that he was not going to be fooled again? Yet in this situation he had to pick his battles. He could damage the Joker, yes, even without his good arm, but there was no telling what that would cost him. If he died, Giedre would be moved anyway.

Nevertheless, the urge to throw in a left hook was quite strong. The jester was close enough to be taken off guard. And the fact that the Joker was trying to intimidate him, that this was just another chance for the clown to force him into obedience, rankled the vigilante in Bruce, the part of himself that was tucked deep within the façade of the billionaire. The Batman wanted to remind the clown of who had beaten up who, in Gordon's interrogation room—he wanted to shatter bone, to bestow bruises, to gouge those hideous brown eyes out…

It was at that point that some logical part of Bruce's brain reminded him that giving in right at this moment was not a sign that he was being fooled—he would break no promises to himself. He knew far too well that the maniac was up to no good. The Joker would never be moral—it simply wasn't in his nature.

The logical part of him won. Who knew? Maybe a chance to escape would provide itself during the trip.

"Okay," Bruce whispered. "Just… just don't touch her. I'll help her up."

As he turned to gently shake Giedre's shoulder, he refused to let the Joker completely out of his sights. From the corner of his eye he could see the brown eyes observing him, shredded lips pursed in a look of definite curiosity. Whether the monster was disappointed by his acquiescence, Bruce didn't want to know.

**000 . Author's Note . 000**

Okay, okay, very short I know. But I wanted to post it now, so it gets posted now. I've been doing insanely huge chapters… 5,000 words at the _least_, and then when I caught myself looking at the word count of this chapter to see whether it was finished or not, I had to smack myself up the head. So I decided to cut it in half—which actually works better, considering that the second half (their driving trip) seemed out of place when "tacked on" to this beginning. So there you go.

I actually came up with the idea of Brandy being a hacker way before lots of other fanfics started appearing with hackers in them… oh well. I just don't think that Joker has the technical expertise to do stuff like that on his own, ya know? He deals with knives, bombs, gunpowder. HTML and all that other computer stuff is a little out of his league. And who better to serve him that stupid teenagers with too much smarts and not enough ingrained common sense and morality to realize, _hey, this guy is bad news—and he could kill me!_

Has anybody guessed the naming motif of all Joker's goons yet? There's only 2 exceptions to it, and they both are for good reasons, as we'll see. So no, "Brandy" is not her real name, any more than Applejack is his real name, or Auguste is, or Joker is, etc. I figure, when you're a goon, you've only got a few joys in your life… so picking a nickname ought to be one of them. XP

Many thanks to my reviewers: vampassassin, Mel, Shmellington, Haladflire65, Miravisu, midnight glade, vballmania23, Lady Padfoot21, Vanafindiel, The Dramatic Sneeze, Mickerayla, CountryPixie, Endgame65, xambivalencex, Taluliaka, Almost Funny, Thedarkknight17, Rebell, Artsy Resuri, nak321, ..1, Merklin, paper-scratch, Tez05, All Nightmare Long (FOUR times! :O), Futaba Hotaru, -x-Bashli-x-, Dark-Angelsan, & lilly.

Love you all. :)


	28. Wilburys

**IF THE FOUNDATIONS BE DESTROYED, WHAT CAN THE RIGHTEOUS DO?**

I'M BA_AAAAAAAACK!_

I don't own Batman. DC Comics does.

Please note that violence will occur in this story, and that less offensive words like "damn" will be used, but more offensive words will be "asterisked" out. Some sexuality will occur but never anything explicit. As of now this story is rated "T"—if any readers feel the rating needs to be raised, please contact me accordingly and it will be.

I experimented with this chapter. It's sort of like a songfic, actually: I just wanted to see if I could do it. Half of this chapter was written… oh, 6+ months ago. The other half was written in the past week. Many thanks to those who have waited for it… many more thanks to those who kept asking for it… most thanks to those who review it. :)

**Chapter Twenty-Eight: Wilburys**

_Friday, 4:23 P.M._

The most absurd thing about the situation was not that the Joker had a "hippie" van, one of the old ones with purple-blue carpet covering the walls and ceiling. Oh no—for a lunatic like the clown, such a thing was entirely possible. Instead, what seemed most out of place was the sight of Brandy, seated across from Bruce, busy chewing gum and blowing bubbles like there was no tomorrow. Never before had the vigilante ever considered how modern "cool" styles of dress could clash with a decades-old "hip" atmosphere: to him, both styles had a silliness that had previously made him classify them as one and the same. Only now did he realize how wrong he had been.

The van was old, that much was certain, and from the musty smell present in the carpet Bruce was positive that it—like the Joker's teeth and hair—needed a good scrubbing. Yet despite the odor and the somewhat greasy feel of the carpet fibers, the inside was remarkably clean, without fast food wrappers or random implements of destruction loitering about (if one did not count the tire iron bolted to the middle of the floor). There were no seatbelts; two built-in "benches" lined the back half, with the result that the only way in or out was either the doors up front or the double-doors in the rear. The missing daylight from the absent windows in the sides was made up for by a strange link of Christmas lights that were wired to the ceiling.

Bruce found his eyes drawn to the bulbs in the multicolor string: he hadn't known that they even _made_ purple Christmas lights, but this day was simply full of surprises. He sat on the left bench, so scrunched toward the front that his shoulder rested against the back of the driver's seat, with the intention of giving Giedre the rest of the bench to lie down. It was still a tight fit—the ambassador's knees were bent and hanging off, while her head was carefully cradled in the billionaire's lap.

When Bruce had moved her from the bedroom, Giedre had responded by vomiting out with dry heaves. Now her body was wracked by random tremors that looked as if she was shivering from nonexistent cold, and the exotic, lush darkness of her Eastern European skin was unnaturally pale. Her eyelids fluttered weakly. Unsure of what to do, Bruce could only remain silent, the fingers of his left hand stroking her hair, while he let his injured right arm rest on her shoulder. He wanted to take off his tux jacket and tuck it around her, but didn't dare draw more attention: the Joker was in the van's passenger seat, barely out of reach.

At Brandy's right, Applejack had just fished something from his pocket. It was shaped like a cigarette, but was alarmingly fat and long, twisted at both ends, and when it was lit a noxious smell filled the room. Brandy noticed immediately and scrunched her nose; Bruce, for his part, had encountered this sort of thing routinely not only as the Batman but also while role-playing in ritzy bars—thus it oddly enough made him feel strangely at home.

"Hey man!" Brandy quipped, her wrinkled nose nearly a snarl. "_Not cool!_ That stuff'll fry your brain!"

Applejack paused in the act of inhaling, gave her a look that plainly said _do you have any concept of where we are_, indicated the Joker with a nod as if reminding her _we're in a car with a lunatic and could die_, before rolling his eyes in a way that simply screamed y_oung people._

Bruce was somewhat impressed on how much the thin blonde twig was capable of communicating without words.

Brandy's response was to plug two slug-shaped beans attached to cords into her ears, turn up the volume, and start blowing bigger bubbles. Faintly, Bruce thought he could hear a woman moaning _I'm dying… bleeding… screaming_… through the girl's headphones, but it sounded depressing so he decided to try and tune the noise out. He glanced up at the ceiling, trying to count the purple lights.

It was then that the Joker abruptly moved, whirling in his seat and seizing Applejack's concoction, plucking it from the man's lips like a feather from the behind of a chicken. Applejack made a slight noise of protest—or else surprise—but the clown didn't seem to notice, as he was engaged with rolling down his window (non-automatic, Bruce absentmindedly noted) before tossing the smoking stick from the car.

"Dude!" Applejack griped. Bruce was astounded at the goon's lack of self-preservation. Perhaps the blonde twig wasn't entirely right in the head…

"La_ter,_" hissed the jester, "You're, uh, _not_ gonna bungle this up just 'cause you're… _ah_, with Lucy in the Sky."

"With Diamonds," Brandy chirped; Bruce's amazement switched to the fact that she had somehow overheard the clown's statement despite the tinny voice from her iPod. Glaring sideways at the girl, Applejack only said submissively, "Of course, Boss."

The Joker only snorted, yanked the noisy plugs from Brandy's ears, and tossed the musical device out as well.

Wisely, the girl chose not to protest. Her next blown bubble was phenomenal in size, and Bruce wondered at her reaction had the clown chosen to pop it. From the look on the jester's face, the thought had indeed crossed his demented mind, but the brown eyes did not linger on the teenager long: they shifted to where Bruce sat, and the billionaire did everything in his power not to tense up noticeably in response. Out came the red tongue—the vigilante was so consumed with watching the forked worm lick the torn lips that he nearly missed the Joker's question.

"What sort of… _music_ do you like, Brucie? What's your… _favorite_ song?"

_Springtime for Hitler._ Bruce didn't dare let his mouth have its sarcastic way, not this time.

"Don't have one," he answered tonelessly, and for the most part that was true. He'd never been particularly interested in music; and due to his butler and former guardian, his taste also ran slightly behind the times. Alfred being his only lifelong companion, Bruce had grown accustomed to an older style of media—he therefore enjoyed old black-and-white horror movies, quaint musicals like _Sound of Music_, and relatively innocent comedies such as _Young Frankenstein_ and the _Three Stooges_. In music he generally lingered around the sixties, seventies, and eighties. Favorites like _Queen_ and _Fleetwood Mac_ would have been on his iPod, had he even possessed one—but he was too concerned about his hearing to dare stick those bean-shaped earphones into his ears, even though he had considered buying one of the noisemakers just for the sake of adding to his witless playboy persona.

But apparently the Joker didn't accept his answer, because the clown reached forward and, before the billionaire could react, tapped Bruce on the forehead.

"Tsk, _tsk_… Helloooo, hellooo, is _any_body _home?_" Joker's lilting voice mocked. "That's… _ah_… _not_ a good way to answer a question, young man… _try_, try again. Favorite song?"

"Chopin's _Funeral March_," the vigilante replied.

The clown let out a barking laugh, so loud and shrill that Brandy jumped and scooted a bit further from the passenger's seat. Applejack's brow furrowed as he stared at Bruce, as if silently asking himself whether the dark-haired man had finally lost it due to the jester's machinations. Bruce glared back at the goon, who quickly averted his eyes.

In the driver's seat, from behind his clown mask, Auguste let out a slight chuckle as well. "'E's got a mouth, eh boss?"

That ended the Joker's merriment. Surveying the masked man, the jester tilted his head, rubbed his gloved fingers together as if they were longing for something sharp, then finally seemed to decide against taking action. He turned back to Bruce, a wry smile restored to his maw and a glistening fire relit behind his brown eyes.

"Oho, Brucie, I'm just _ecstatic_ to hear you are interested in the old… _uh, _classics. Too many kids these days are _consumed_"—here the jester rolled his eyes at Brandy, who merely replied with a bubble the size of a watermelon—"with pop stars and… ah, _what's-her-name_…" The clown snapped his fingers at the girl; the teen quickly popped her latest bubble to free her mouth.

"Hanna Montana," Brandy supplied, noisily smacking away.

"Yeah, _her_," said the monster, lifting his ochre-stained eyebrows in near incredulity. "And that's_ssss_ not all, folks!"

Bruce had the bizarre image of Porky Pig in clown makeup. It was fortunately fleeting, as the maniac continued.

"With all the new fangled _stuff_ they have today… I've been wanting to show Gotham some _old school_, hmmn? Back in the _day_. When _men_ were _men_ and _women_ were…" the clown paused and leaned forward, leering at Giedre, "Wel_llll_, you _know._"

The ambassador must have realized she was the focus of attention—a tremble ran through her, almost a full shudder. Unconsciously, the billionaire tightened his hold. Why the jester would choose to focus on Giedre now, of all times, was a mystery—it was random, yet somehow purposeful. Perhaps the monster could have a method to his madness, at least part of the time.

Within that line of thought, Bruce also had the notion that the Joker did not simply go for casual "drives." This, along with the clown's insistence that she be brought along, gave the billionaire a suspicion that perhaps they were nearing whatever task the monster had kidnapped the ambassador for. An alarming thought occurred to him: up until this point the Joker had obviously been tolerating both his prisoners. What would happen when they were no longer useful?

One thing at a time, Bruce's mind warned. And right at that moment, the most imperative thing would be to distract the clown from Giedre. He had the bizarre sense of déjà vu, as if he had done this sort of thing before—it was almost as if he was once again at Dent's fundraiser, leaping into the fray to draw the monster away from Rachel. That instance had ended rather badly… and right now, he did not have his mask. That more than anything troubled him, terrified him, even. In a situation where death was continuously threatened, it was better to act immortal, strong and impregnable, rather than as a cowardly trust fund baby… still, even _Bruce Wayne_ had weapons in his arsenal, he realized. They were just of a different sort.

"What's yours?"

His ruse worked, the question drawing the clown's attention back to him.

"Hm_mmn?_" the jester fairly purred, as if urging Bruce to repeat himself. Squaring his shoulders, hugging Giedre just the slightest bit tighter, the billionaire did.

"What's your favorite song, Joker? You asked me mine, so I'm asking yours."

It was the first time that he'd called the jester by _name_; the first time he'd spoken the clown's name aloud as Bruce Wayne, aside from having to explain who the monster was to Giedre. There was something forbidden in this act, this one word. Even as the Batman, Bruce had not personally addressed the psychopath by his self-styled title… it was the ever-useful term of "you" that normally found its way into their meager conversations. As he pronounced the name now, Bruce found that it warped his lips oddly, left a strange taste on his tongue.

He also had no way of knowing how the monster would react to this unprecedented move. Laugh? But no—the clown was straight in his chair, almost hugging the back of it with his arms. His face was surprisingly solemn, only his mud-colored eyes glittering strangely in their sockets, alit with a familiar emotion that the playboy could not quite place. _Curiosity?_ Interest?

_Fascination?_

"And what makes you think I play fair, Bruce?" he asked, voice surprisingly normal, no whining undertone, no nasally pitch. It was as if a complete stranger had spoken—and had used the billionaire's true name, rather than its mocking derivative. As if speaking the clown's title aloud had changed the jester's opinion of him, somehow put them on quasi-equal terms... this more than anything was unnerving.

Bruce reached into the depths of his being, searched for his inner strength, and summoned the Batman. He needed the dark knight inside of himself to answer—and he leaned so heavily on his other half that he had to be careful not to let his voice slip into a deep growl as he answered,

"No, but you've never been the sort to let your opinion go unvoiced."

He almost marveled at himself. How had he managed to make his words sound so flippant, so carefree? Perhaps it was the _absence_ of his mask. Over time his "stage voice" as the Batman had grown deeper and more gravelly—so had Bruce Wayne's voice grown ever more glib and frivolous. He'd just never thought about his projection of Batman's tone needing to be the same every time: it was a ploy to prevent himself from being recognized, and everyone who heard him speak knew it.

But as for Bruce Wayne's voice… the vigilante had never realized that it too had changed, until that moment. For one second, Bruce wondered if his ever-present question—was _Batman_ or _Bruce Wayne_ his true self?—was false, and if in reality he was neither, just a nameless entity playing both parts and never revealing his genuine face to the world.

As it was, the lightheartedness in his voice seemed to have drawn the Joker out of seriousness, for the clown let out a mirthful laugh—"_Ha!_ True, true…"—but only for an instant. For when the monster smiled, it was less a grin than a feral look, dark with sinister passion, the creases on his cheeks helping to make his discolored teeth appear as the fangs of a rabid dog.

Bruce had barely registered this expression, before the jester whirled back in his seat, facing forward, blocking his countenance from view. His soft murmuring could be heard, light and playful, nothing nearly as ominous as the face his features had just twisted into—

"_Hmm_mmn, _favor_-ite _song_, favorite _song_… ah-_ha_, I _do_ play fair, really I _do_… favor-_ite_ song… ten thousand _years_ of _human_ his-_tory_ and I have to pick just _one_… hmph. Favorite, _favorite_, _**favorite**_… aha!"

At his last exclamation the clown bent over, yanking the glove compartment open and pawing through the contents. All manner of filth came out—old gum wrappers, the wizened core of an apple, something that looked like a rotting, child-sized shoe… not to mention a good heaping of scattered bullets and used cartridges, which pinged pleasantly on the floor as the jester groped through the drawer's contents.

"_Where_ is it," the Joker muttered. "_Auguste!_ You idiot, _what_ did you _do_ with my CD's?"

"They're in the door compartment, boss," said the goon. "You said you didn't want them clogging up your bullet stash, so—"

"Shut _up_ and _drive!_ Buffoon. _Why_ do I keep you around, hon-_est_-ly—you haven't got _balls_ or _brains…_"

At last came the clattering of old CD-cases, some shattered and missing their hinges, others empty of any contents. Along with them were a good number of cassette tapes, a form of ancient artifact that Bruce had not seen since his late teenage years. The jester ignored these—the billionaire noted how the van's radio must have been updated with a CD player—and shifted through the material until he found the one he wanted.

"Favorite song, eh? _Eh?_ Wel_lll_, here you _go_, Brucie."

The speakers were somewhat off, slightly metallic and out of tune, but when the Joker jammed the CD into the player and the first few lines of music came out, Bruce recognized the melody immediately. As the gravelly singer belted out his first few lines, the billionaire could almost have sung along.

_Tweeter and the Monkey Man were hard up on cash_

_They stayed up all night, selling cocaine and hash_

_To an Undercover Cop who had a sister named Jan_

_For reasons unexplained she loved the Monkey Man_

Bruce tried not to shake his head. This was lunacy: the Joker's presence, an old "flower power" van, possible death and dismemberment in the near future, and now…

"The Traveling Wilburys?" he asked. "_That's_ your favorite band?"

"_Nonsense_, Brucie," the jester replied matter-of-factly. "You didn't _ask_ for favorite band, you _asked_ for _favorite song_. And _this_ is one of them."

The billionaire muttered something best kept to himself.

"Tsk, _tsk_, Brucie. _Behave_—you'll get to listen to _your_ stuff later." The monster held up another CD case. "I _happen_ to have Chopin's _March_ right here."

Bruce tried not to think about the Joker listening to classical music—or why he might have _that_ particular tune handy. It was relatively easy to be distracted when the current song's chorus came around:

_And the walls came down _

_ALL THE WAY TO HELL_

_Never saw them when they're standing_

_Never saw them when they fell_

There was no better reminder of his current situation.

Giedre gave another shudder, but quieted when he brushed the hair from her eyes, stroking her pale cheek. Whatever was coming, he knew she would not be able to withstand it—he'd have to do everything for the both of them.

Perhaps there would be a chance to escape. Or was this wishful thinking?

_The Undercover Cop never liked the Monkey Man_

_Even back in childhood he wanted to see him in the can_

"Some-_times_," came the Joker's mumble, as he leaned back languidly in his chair, "I think I've known the Batman forr_rrrever_. It wouldn't, uh, _surprise_ me, if we discovered we were _twins_. What do _you_ think, Auguste?"

The clown's statements, though nonsensical, reminded Bruce uncomfortably of his recurring dream, and how he'd awoken—yesterday, was it?—to see the monster's face, not only before his waking eyes but in his dreamscape as well. It felt as if he'd always known one wacko or another, his entire life: and with all the stress of the past few days, no wonder his sleep-deprived mind was conjuring images of its tormentor to haunt him. Who knew what it would cook up for him tonight? Assuming he survived that long.

Yet while Bruce could not follow the jester's abrupt switch in thought, this did not seem to bother the driving clown.

"'Course you 'ave, boss," the small man said, twisting the steering wheel almost distractedly. "Great minds think alike, my mamma alway' told meh."

"Your _what?_" growled the clown, jolted out of his reverie. "Don't you quote that _hag_ to me, you worthless piece of _flotsam_. That, that—that _hag_, that old _badger_, that worthless bloody _biyatch_—"

Auguste leaned a bit too heavily on the brake. His next exclamation was wounded:

"But boss! Ya've never _met_ my mam."

"Shuttu-_p!_"

Brandy was giggling at the clowns' exchange. Bruce felt the need to kick her, but held back. Applejack didn't.

"Ow!" the girl shrieked. "My foot!"

Joker swiveled briefly in his chair. "Kids, if ya can't keep quiet, I'll _make_ ya." His lamplike eyes flicked to Bruce before he turned around once more. "We're… _almost there_."

Bruce said nothing.

_Next day the Undercover Cop was hot in pursuit_

_He was taking the whole thing personal_

_He didn't care about the loot_

_Jan had told him many times, "It was you to me who taught—_

" 'IN JERSEY EVERYTHING'S LEGAL, AS LONG AS YOU DON'T GET CAUGHT!' " The Joker belted out in harmony with the stanza's last line, flinging a handful of expired bullet cases from the window and breaking up into sneering chortles.

Bruce tried not to roll his eyes. Of course _that_ would be the Joker's favorite line… but already the song's story had continued on.

_Someplace by Rahway Prison, they ran out of gas_

_The Undercover Cop cornered them, said _

"_Boy, you didn't think that this could last!"_

_Jan jumped out of bed, said, "There's someplace I gotta go."_

_She took a gun out of the drawer and said, _

"_It's best if you don't know."_

"My _favorite_ part, that was," hummed the Joker. "Completely surprised me that she had it _in_ her, ol' gal. _J_an, _J_oker, we're two of a kind."

_The Undercover Cop was found face down in a field_

_The Monkey Man was on the river bridge using Tweeter as a shield_

_Jan said to the Monkey Man, "I'm not fooled by Tweeter's curl,_

"_I knew him long before he ever became a Jersey girl."_

"_Ah_," the jester sighed, sobering. "_Now_ I remember why I like this song so much. Don't you _see_, Brucie?"

Bruce shook his head, and even though the clown couldn't know this, he still seemed to accept the silence as an answer.

"Be-_cause_… it reminds me of good ol' Gotham. Of _Batsy_. This song's a _play_, between him and I, _truly_ it is. I'm the Monkey Man—ol' _Bat_boy is the Undercover Cop…"

A snigger escaped the monster, but when he turned to face his prisoners the painted face was mostly serious, inscrutable. There was just enough of a hint of amusement, however, for Bruce to classify the expression as one of pure madness.

"And so…" the maniac ran a tongue over his yellow teeth, "_What_ part are _you_ then, Brucie? _Hmm? _ Tweeter, per-_haps_, pretending to be something you're _not?"_

Bruce found it hard to breathe as the clown's stare drilled into him. The Joker cocked his head inquisitively, clucked, and then murmured so softly that it was impossible not to hear,

"Or… are you _Jan?_ Want to blow my brains out?"

The billionaire shook his head, numbly.

But the clown only continued.

"Either way you're _lying _to yourself. The big dif-_fer_-ence"—the grin bloomed again, feral look returning—"is how you finally _end up_. Being held as the _shield_, or holdin' the _gun_."

A chuckle resounded. The stained teeth were suddenly nightmarishly sharp.

"Which _is_ it, Brucie?"

The van had stopped, Bruce realized. He only stared as the jester stood, took a pace forward, and leaned down to seize his arm. So close—the clown might as well have been kneeling atop him. An image ran through his mind—"_We really should stop this fighting, otherwise we'll miss the fireworks"_—but then it was gone, as the Joker whispered,

"I can't _wait_ to find out."

His damaged elbow twinged as the gloved hand gripped his arm harder, nearly cutting off its blood supply. Bruce was hauled to his feet, barely managing to prevent the ambassador's head from hitting the seat roughly; he was yanked forward, the back doors of the van swinging open, his eyes blinded by the sudden sunlight.

Blinking under the onslaught, Bruce's vision cleared to reveal the front of a building, and the words on the sign made his heart plummet to his shoes. Gotham General Bank.

As the plum-covered hand pulled him from the van, Bruce could hear the Joker humming along to the song's last few lines, the clown's rhythm faulty but recognizable none the less:

_I guess I'll to Florida and get myself some sun_

_There ain't no more opportunity here; everything's been done._

_Sometime I think of Tweeter, sometime I think of Jan,_

_Sometime I don't think about nothing but the Monkey Man_

**000 . Author's Notes . 000**

The song "Tweeter and the Monkey Man" is copyrighted to the Traveling Wilburys. I did not produce it in its entirety here. The lyrics were written from memory, so please excuse any mistakes.

This chapter… I let the song do a lot of the work for me… I guess that's what a songfic is. But _ai_, it's hard to get back into writing when you haven't written anything in forever.

If you want me to continue, tell me! I'm still not sure if I want to, but I figure I'll write a few chapters and see if I can't get back into the hang of it. The semester's a third of the way over already… but hey, I still have some free time left. But I know sometimes people get tired of reading a story that's been on the shelf so long, so if you were bored, that's still cool.

Thanks to the reviewers: All Nightmare Long (4 times! Kisses & hugs!), Shmellington, midnight glade, Vanafindiel, Miravisu, CountryPixie, Lady Padfoot21, Endgame65, Mickerayla, The Dramatic Sneeze, nak321, Taluliaka, ChocolatCiel, Xrai, Calathiel of Mirkwood, XxJagzxX, Dark-Angelsan, blackinky, Rebell, anonymous, vballmania23, dferveiro, chase A dream, SongoftheDarquePhoenix, jakkie, RedRaven1994, darkknightwing (4 times, too! More kisses & hugs!), Kel, Whisper230, 4060 means Broccoli, Endgame65 (again!), fluffyfg, Kalashnikov2092, midnight glade (again!), dferveiro (again!), scorpiogirl93 (2 times! Hugs!), Anonymous, pigwidgeon (3 times! Hugs!), & fan.

Your support is much appreciated. :)

Also thanks to those who've reviewed my other stories, _Jeremiah's Well, Wrong, No Way!, _and_ Keep It Going._ Also major kudos to those who sent me PMs of encouragement. Thanks a lot, guys.


	29. Predictions

**IF THE FOUNDATIONS BE DESTROYED, WHAT CAN THE RIGHTEOUS DO?**

I don't own Batman. DC Comics does.

Please note that violence will occur in this story, and that less offensive words like "damn" will be used, but more offensive words will be "asterisked" out. Some sexuality will occur but never anything explicit. As of now this story is rated "T"—if any readers feel the rating needs to be raised, please contact me accordingly and it will be.

A note on this chapter: I intended to post this a week earlier, but then I had a paper due. Yikes… Gotham City or English paper, Gotham City or English paper… suffice to say school came first. Yes, I know it's short, but I was having trouble writing the second half. So I wrote up only part of the second half, and am right now posting this as-is. Enjoy.

**Chapter Twenty-Nine: Predictions**

_Friday, 4:12 P.M. (Previously)_

Having been released from the hospital with only a minor laceration over her eyebrow, the sole ambition of Remember Temperance Yates was to have an easy, unassuming day. How unfortunate that God always does what He wills, rather than necessarily what one wants.

Her first task had been to return to Wayne Manor and find it empty. Thus began her search for Mr. Pennyworth, Master Wayne's butler and hence technically her boss, who should have returned home after his meeting with the Mayor. Cook Kwan had no idea where he was, and could not help in the search because of the mischief wrought by her two sons. In the night Shun and Huan had taken her absence as permission to scribble crayon over the walls of one of the downstairs bathrooms. The Chinese woman clucked disapprovingly in her native tongue, scrubbing at the lurid floral tiles, all the while giving her miscreant offspring stern glares as they shuffled unhappily, their noses planted in respective corners. Temperance thought it wise to leave her be.

Nor could Temperance's search be aided by Toby—not only was his leg broken, but the hospital had also managed to call his wife, who hurried over, their months-old daughter in tow, to thoroughly chastise her husband ("_really, dear—crashing the car, dear—the very thought of it, dear—wish you'd learn to drive better, dear_"). Again, wisely, Temperance left the other woman to this, though Toby certainly gave her a pitiful look as she left the room, pleading for help that would not come. How unfortunate for him that Temperance considered finding her boss more relevant that interfering with spousal scolding.

It did not take overly long to find Mr. Pennyworth—merely long enough for her to begin to worry. When she called his cell phone and received no answer, Temperance knew that something was wrong. Had Mr. Pennyworth reacted badly to the news of Master Wayne's kidnapping? No matter her thoughts on Master Wayne—he was spoilt, immature, whiny, discourteous, flighty, and numerous other unflattering adjectives—Temperance knew that Alfred Pennyworth's feelings about the young man were quite the opposite. She knew true love when she saw it; the sort of love, not necessarily romantic, that resulted in lifelong devotion to another individual. Master Wayne was Mr. Pennyworth's entire purpose for living.

How such an empty-headed man had gained such loyalty from one of his servants—so rare, so uncommon in the materialistic world of the upper class—Temperance did not know. Perhaps Mr. Pennyworth saw something in their employer that she did not. Or perhaps Master Wayne had been more pleasant as a child, engendering this relationship that had lasted into his adulthood. However it was, Mr. Pennyworth would certainly react badly to any danger visited upon his young master—and although Temperance was fairly certain that he would not harm himself (the man being an ardent Roman Catholic, a religion which, as far as she knew, detested suicide as an unforgivable form of self-murder), with his health becoming frailer, she had no way of knowing that his mental state had not adversely affected his body.

One call to the Mayor's office solved nearly everything. There was simply the matter of _getting_ to the Mayor's current phone number: with the town in disarray, few people knew the proper number to gain access to the Mayor—and those who did were flooding the phone lines. It took over an hour to navigate the bureaucracy, but once she'd gotten through it was simple to find Mr. Pennyworth. As it turned out, the Joker's video had indeed brought about a reaction. Shock.

He'd never even left the Mayor's makeshift office.

This revelation was followed by another hour of driving to pick up Mr. Pennyworth, easing him back to the car, and then heading home. If the hospitals hadn't been so full, she might have taken him there, just to see if he was still sensible. The older man hung his head throughout the ride, eyes glassy and staring. He looked ready to collapse under the weight of his thoughts.

And he _was_ thinking, she knew, despite all evidence to the contrary: his blank look, eyes staring blearily at nothing, was nothing but a mask over his churning mind. As Temperance glanced at Mr. Pennyworth, helping him up the Manor's steps, it occurred to her that she'd seen that sort of look before. It was eerily akin to the emotions that had flashed over Master Wayne's face, the day she'd woken him from bed and discovered that his elbow was purple and swollen. _Don't tell Alfred_, the young man had asked, and his expression—the same as Mr. Pennyworth's—had brought her to agree to his request. It was a mask… Everyone in this house seemed to wear masks.

She didn't know what to make of this. Such bewildering behavior. But she did what she could for Mr. Pennyworth, settling him in a fluffy armchair and gently prying off his stiff shoes, so polished and fine (Temperance always admired men who kept their appearances up). After seeing to his physical comfort she went to make him some tea and sandwiches, only to discover the refrigerator was mostly empty. The tea was easily found but the sandwiches were not as numerous as she would have preferred. Still, she took what she could, laying out the offering before him. Only when the warm teacup met his hand did he move, blinking like an old man waking from deep sleep, Rip Van Winkle coming out of his trance.

"Ah," he remarked, surveying the fare.

"There you go, sir," she said, nodding. "Tea and sandwiches. When I get some supplies, I'll be sure to make you some real crumpets."

More life stirred into the elderly butler's eyes. He murmured, "I _knew_ there was a reason I hired a fellow Englishwoman."

The comment was clearly intended to be humorous; but, no matter how she might try, Temperance found that she could not force a smile onto her face. Not even a false one—she had forgotten how. Mr. Pennyworth seemed to understand. He set his cup down, carefully so as not to spill it, and reached forward to pat her hand, the gentle sort of swiping motion that only grandfathers could reasonably use. Glancing into his face, she was taken aback to find it distorted with compassion. How he could find the emotional strength to care for her problems, while his own were so great, she could not fathom.

"Thank you, my dear. I…" he breathed in, heavily, leaning back against the cushion. "I'm afraid I'd like to be alone for a while, if that is all right. Perhaps you should go about your duties as if nothing has happened. Master Bruce will… will want the house to be looked after."

She searched Mr. Pennyworth's features, looking for a trace of dishonesty, but finding none she nodded and left him to his thoughts. In the hall Cook Kwan called for her to come inspect the bathroom, which she did diligently, finding a few smudge marks that Kwan had missed. This in turn made the rotund woman even more wrathful toward her offspring, who whimpered in fear to hear the sounds of her scrubbing resume. Temperance gave the boys a stern look as she went to the kitchen to fetch the household "to-do" list, at the top of which was the call to restock on groceries. Selecting a car key from among the many options in the garage, she recalled further that the Manor's communal purse was running low, and Mr. Pennyworth insisted that they always shop with cash. This would necessitate a run to the bank before her shopping trip commenced.

Some people acknowledge that there is a peculiar sense of destiny in life, an almost cyclic motion of God's hands picking and choosing, arranging events neatly and orderly like an author outlining a book, the true sequence of which is only visible when viewed from above—or from hindsight. For some of these people this "Hand of God," this ultimate "deux ex machina," is so commonplace in their lives that they can almost predict when something dramatic will happen, when all the puzzle pieces come together to form the pattern that the Almighty desires. Quite naturally these people tend to dismiss such notions—they are _sensible_ human beings, unwilling to believe in nonsense like psychic powers or prediction of the future. What they do not realize is that there is nothing _superhuman_ about the predictions in the back of their minds; it is no more paranormal than a man predicting rain upon seeing storm clouds in the horizon.

Remember Temperance Yates was many things, and "sensible" was near the top of the list. As such she ignored the faint trickle of unease lurking in her subconscious, disregarding it no matter how the hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Once or twice she swiped at her shoulders, smoothing her hair afterwards—_have to look professional, because appearances are all that matter anymore, after the accident in England_—but she always chided herself for such a motion. There is nothing wrong, nothing, so focus on the road, no matter if there isn't much traffic—she still didn't want to run red lights, did she?

She was surprised to find that Gotham General Bank was still open. Given the abandoned look of the city, the desolate emptiness of the roads, she was willing to bet that it had been closed. If not because of the scare of the local madman, then because of the surety of the absence of customers. Yet the door was not locked, and while the tellers were certainly fewer in number than they should have been on a Friday evening, nonetheless two workers, a man and a woman, looked up upon her entry. Temperance immediately made for the woman, despite the man being closer. It was her habit to disregard the male sex until her respect was earned.

The teller smiled at her, faintly, attempting to be cheery, but Temperance could not smile back. In consequence the woman's face fell—faces always did around her, these days—and Temperance was all too willing to escape the nearly empty room, the prickling on the back of her neck fairly screaming at the smothering silence. Maybe it was a mistake to leave Mr. Pennyworth alone, after all, Kwan had her hands full and wouldn't be about in case something happened to him. Yes. Yes, that was what she was worried about. Why did she have goosebumps on her arms?

This teller had to be a new employee, Temperance thought half-idly, as she watched the woman work, sifting through the saving account's information on her computer. The redhaired woman rested her hands on the counter, glancing about the teller's table, filled with paperwork. Paperclips lay on pristine white bank notes, winking bits of silver—there was a penknife as well, painted gold, gleaming in its holster—and the ever-present "pen on a string," for the careless customer who had forgotten their own writing implement. Temperance pretended to be engrossed in her observations, attempting to calm herself down from her high tension, though it still betrayed itself in the way her fingers trembled against the counter's surface. She didn't acknowledge the family—mother, father, and two little boys—who entered after her, and who lined up at the male teller's table nearby. The small boys were squabbling over a plastic toy gun.

Despite Temperance's every effort, still her tension lingered. When the sound of real gunshots was heard, she did not even jump—indeed, there was a strange sense of relief in her stomach, as if what she had been waiting for, anticipating without her own knowledge, had finally come, and now the majority of the ordeal was over. All she had to do was endure whatever was happening, keep quiet and stand off to the side during this robbery, and everything would be okay.

Then she saw the clowns. Sensible or not, it took all Temperance had not to scream.

**000 . d . da . dar . dark . dark k . dark kn . dark kni . dark knig . dark knigh . dark knight . 000**

_Friday, 5:01 P.M._

"_Ah-ha_, Slink!" hollered the Joker, yanking so strongly on his captive's arm that it almost dislocated. Bruce tried to bite back a grunt of pain, but he must not have succeeded, for the clown's attention switched to him.

"What's your, uh, pro_blem_, oh charming _prince?_" the jester demanded, giving Bruce another shake. This time the vigilante was prepared, but he could not stop the beads of sweat that appeared on his brow as his elbow objected vehemently. From how closely the monster was peering at him, brown eyes squinting as they raked over his form, observing him, Bruce knew that the clown had picked up on his discomfort and was even now searching the cause.

From another parked van glided the gray shape of Slink, who swept forward like a melting shadow. His colorless eyes observed Bruce for only a moment, before he spoke.

"Yes?"

At first Bruce thought the drab man was addressing him, but as the seconds lingered it became apparent that the question had been posed to the Joker, who paid it no more heed than the stray litter across the street. The clown's whole world seemed to have shrunk down to him and Bruce—and the billionaire, knowing that he was being studied, could only content himself with glaring back at the monster, his gaze challenging. This was a weak ploy and they both knew it.

The jester snorted; the plum glove squeezed again, experimentally. Bruce gave no further response, until those cruel fingers _twisted_, digging in, and the younger man felt wetness trickle down his arm as his own gasp filled his ears. That last movement must have broken his skin…

"Wayne appears to be in pain," said Slink, voice as barely audible as always, who only now intently focused on Bruce as well. The billionaire gave him a clear look—_no duh?_—while the Joker merely snorted again, bull-like, attention unwavering from his captive's face.

"A… _uh_… talent for the _obvious_, you got there, Slink-_o_." Said the jester, who jerked his head towards his purple van, eyes unmoving from Bruce's own, "Our _lady-luck_ is in there, I'd _appreciate_ it if she _wasn't_—get m' drift?"

_Don't touch her!_ Bruce wanted to snarl, but the agony from his elbow had reached a new crescendo, bathing over him in waves that made him sick to his stomach. He was afraid he'd vomit if he opened his mouth. But just as his pain-ridden mind contemplated striking the jester, if only to satisfy the wild rage welling up inside of him, the gloved fingers loosened. The clown released him in order to raise his own hand, rubbing his fingers together, testing the consistency of the fluid that had leaked through the sleeve of Bruce's tux. A red tongue darted out to swipe at torn lips, the painted expression contemplative—like the face of a refined expert trying out a glass of wine. Bruce could not have been more disgusted if the clown had put his hand to his mouth and _tasted_ the blood.

"Enjoying your handiwork?" he grated out, brave enough to speak but not to physically move away.

"Hm_mm_," was the only answer the jester gave in return, and when his eyes flashed back to Bruce's, the billionaire saw that the predatory look had returned. The monster did not smile, though. Bruce's glare faltered.

"Aha," murmured the clown, as observant as always. When his hand closed over Bruce's arm again, the vigilante was surprised that it gripped above the elbow, rather than on the affected area itself. Almost as if the jester was intentionally _avoiding_ causing him pain… his blue eyes narrowed at the Joker, his mind furiously sending the message: _I will not be lied to again! I! Will! Not!_

It was sure proof that the monster could not read minds, for he gave no indication that he heard the younger man's intense monologue. He simply shook his head, tugging almost gently as he chided, "Come along. We'll discuss this… _later_, young man."

The hell we will, Bruce thought. He considered fighting the grip, swinging his good fist up into the jester's face and making a run for it. Granted, this might get him shot, but that was always a constant possibility as the Batman, and with the Joker's presence it would probably be a certainty eventually, anyway—death by bullet, knife, or some other more horrible method. With all the torment of the past few days, followed by the new revival of the Batman in his subconscious—and now the jester's latest bout of curiosity being sated at the expense of his injury—Bruce found that he was digging in his heels, intentionally making things difficult for his captor, who raised a blackened eyebrow at this newfound stubbornness.

Then the Joker allowed his eyes, oh-so-conspiciously, to trail away from Bruce's face and back towards the van; Bruce found his curiosity forced his own gaze to follow, and then he cursed himself. For there stood Slink, hands on the arms of the ambassador, supporting her, as she reeled and stumbled like a drunk. Her eyes were glazed, but, when she looked at the billionaire, they contained just enough of a spark of desperation for his will to crumble.

There must have been some telltale sign, a slump in his shoulders perhaps, a loosening of the cord of muscle in his arms, something the monster could feel, for the clown broke into a smile. Satisfied, the Joker patted Bruce's shoulder, half-crooning,

"_There_, see, it's not so hard, is it m'boy? One _foot_ in front of the other, as they say. _But_," he paused, in order to guide Bruce forward again, in through the bank's front doors, "we _still_ are going to _talk_ about this. You _wait_ and see."

Not if I escape first, whispered the gravelly voice in the back of Bruce's mind.

**000 . Author's Notes . 000**

I'm sorry. I intended to continue this chapter in Bruce's perspective, but it just wasn't coming. I'm not sure why—some sort of writer's block, almost so intense I nearly gave up altogether. Maybe I was stalling again. So I decided I would post this and write more Bruce the next chapter… and you know what, I think that's working much better. I'm hoping to have it up by next week. Wish me luck!

Many thanks to reviewers: Aylette 34, CountryPixie, scorpiogirl93, Endgame65, blackinky, fweece, XxJagzxX, darkknightwing, Myrtice, Anchor654, (a nameless review), midnight glade, Saela, Miravisu, Mickerayla, Vanafindiel, dferveiro, fluffyfg, vicky, All Nightmare Long, ceb24, Naeryx Genesis, andaere, & miikkuli.

I wrote this for you guys. ^_^


	30. Redheads

**IF THE FOUNDATIONS BE DESTROYED, WHAT CAN THE RIGHTEOUS DO?**

I don't own Batman. DC Comics does. If they're gonna kill him off for good, though, they don't deserve to. Which is why I am BOYCOTTING DC COMICS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

Please note that violence will occur in this story, and that less offensive words like "damn" will be used, but more offensive words will be "asterisked" out. **Some sexuality will occur but never anything explicit** (THAT MEANS **THIS** CHAPTER, HINT HINT). As of now this story is rated "T"—if any readers feel the rating needs to be raised, please contact me accordingly and it will be.

This chapter is a case of a review causing my mind to spark—and boy am I happy that I finally have time to type this up. I was planning on having it out much sooner, as always. But now it's finally up, a kind of sadistic Christmas present (I know!), but hey.

TO MY READERS: for this chapter you might want to remember who Silhouette is. The earlier chapters covered her, but I haven't had her on the page much, for which I apologize. She personally appeared in Chapter Six, and featured in Bruce's mental discussions in Chapter Nine. Also, one might want to review Temperance's actions in Chapter Twelve.

P.S. I am aware that there are statistics for how much money Bruce Wayne has, but it's my fanfic, I do what I like. So there.

**Chapter Thirty: Redheads**

_Friday, 5:04 P.M._

The walk into the bank took forever, even though it could not have been more than six or seven steps. At the entrance the Joker paused, his hand on Bruce's arm like an exasperated governess with a willful child, and regally motioned for Auguste to open the door. This the clown-masked man did cheerfully, with an odd sort of reverence, as if the monster were a king of old, entering his court with appropriate ceremony. It was all Bruce could do not to kick the small man's feet out from under him.

A few of the Joker's men had entered the bank beforehand, and—if the panicked screaming of a woman was any indication—they had quickly set about bullying all the prior occupants. Within Bruce, the Batman growled: low and deep, a heavy rumbling noise, silent to the outside world but loud and fierce in his own ears. The vigilante managed to swallow the sound, though he stiffened briefly in the jester's hands, only forcing himself to relax when the monster fixed an assessing eye on him once more.

"Uh, all _right_ there?" the clown asked, patting the billionaire's shoulder. Bruce gritted his teeth but said nothing. From the corner of his eye, he saw the jester grin.

_Arrogant son of a— _

But this thought was interrupted by the voice of Applejack, shouting, "Geez lady, give a guy a break! Stop _caterwalin'!_" and the accompanied thud of something heavy striking flesh. This time a child's scream rent the air, plunging Bruce's heart into his shoes, while his stomach took the alternate route and leapt into his throat.

"_Mommy!_"

Children? His mind whirled. It was Friday evening, a day after the Joker had practically threatened the entire city, and parents were taking their _children_ to the bank? Come to think of it, why was the bank open at all? What sort of idiot would leave such an obvious target unprotected and ripe for the taking—

But the owners of the bank are common citizens, the back of his mind prodded. Not like Batman. Not like _you_. They don't view strategies in terms of life or death. Their ability to forsee danger ends at the doors of the stock market. Dismemberment is not in their thoughts every night, nor do they peer around corners for attacks while walking down the street.

Most of all, he knew, the bank owners had no way of knowing the Joker's mind. Even the Batman couldn't claim to understand it. One could say they were even worse off than the vigilante—the bank owners would not be prepared for the jester's unpredictability, something that the Dark Knight had come to expect. It was a trait that Bruce was still learning to grasp, not as the Batman, but as Bruce Wayne. By now he understood the clown well enough to know not to show any emotion, and he stood still as the monster observed him, the red lips pursed wryly. He avoided looking at the clown; he only had eyes for the whimpering child.

It was a little boy, perhaps six or seven, with blonde curls, green eyes slightly puffed from the tears streaking down his cheeks, mussed-up jeans, and a "Power Rangers" shirt. Yet in Bruce's vision, the child seemed to melt—he aged about a year, hair darkening to black, eyes to blue. Somehow, though, the tears remained, gathering into clumpy splotches on damp eyelashes, dripping down onto a miniature tux that was stained with blood.

_That's not right_, Bruce thought. _I didn't cry. That whole damned night, I didn't cry._

And then, as the child before him returned to his previous blonde form, shuffling to hide behind his older brother, another thought strayed into Bruce's mind: _I should have. I couldn't... but I _should_ have cried._

Maybe if he had, things would have turned out differently. If he hadn't bottled himself up all those years ago, perhaps he would never have felt the pangs of the Batman being born within him, nor spent all those years abroad laboring to bring his vision to life. He wouldn't be standing here in this bank, next to a monster. Oh, such dangerous thoughts—

He had to force himself to look away, keeping his face as masked as possible, mind retreating into the Batman's mental arms. Their strength enfolded him, enshrouded his wellspring of memory into the actions of assessing the situation. He noted that the father of the children was in his mid-thirties, slightly balding, a little overweight, and furthermore was also pale and deathly still. No help would come from him, regardless of the danger the man's family was in.

_What was it Ducard told me, that day on the ice? That their deaths weren't my fault. That it was my father's—_

This thought, too, was cut off, as the Batman within turned his attention to the mother. She was on her knees, shaking like she was undergoing an exorcism. From how she clasped her hands to the back of her head, and the way droplets of crimson were seeping through her fingers, Bruce understood all too well the nature of her demons. If anything, she was possibly more a liability than her children and husband put together. He didn't need the Batman to know that there was no way she would be able to stand and run, should it come to that.

Behind Bruce, in Slink's arms, Giedre gave a groan.

"_Seen_ enough?" asked the Joker, eyebrow quirked at his captive. Bruce didn't answer, just moved his observation to the teller, who was trying to both cower and keep his hands aloft at the same time.

"_This_ is the par_t_," the maniac added, cheerfully, "where you say, 'Oh Joker, _daddy _sweet, I _promise_ to, uh, be _good_. I'll do whatever_rrr_ you _say_.' Right, Brucie?"

An accompanying squeeze to his arm prompted Bruce to answer: "Right." Only at the last second did he remember not to use the Batman's growl.

"_Good_," purred the monster. "Good, good, ah, _good_."

A motion in the corner of his vision brought Bruce's attention to a second teller, and he again cursed the bank owners for bringing yet another innocent life into such a hazardous situation. This other teller was another woman, elderly, whose hands looked limp and fish-like in midair. Then Bruce's focus switched to the last person he thought he would ever see again—yet his first thought was surprise, not at her presence, but rather on the fact that her existence in the same room did not dredge up a feeling of disgust.

Was that... _Temperance?_

Of course it was. He didn't know how or why, but for some reason he could not will himself to be astonished. This was the most ordinary thing in the world—he always met his employees during bank heists while being held hostage by homicidal clowns. The part of him that was Batman had merely one dry observation to make: only the appearance of Temperance could cause him to go into shock quite so quickly.

"Care_-ful _with the_ merchandise!_" snarled the Joker, so threatening that Bruce was snapped back into full awareness. He realized that Slink had moved from behind them, dragging Giedre along as well, nearly dropping her. Even after the jester's admonition, Slink was barely supporting the ambassador's helpless form. Instead, his pale eyes were staring, pupils sharp and slitted, fixed on Temperance, who merely stood still at the second teller's counter, as frigid as if carved from ice.

Just as if he had been dunked in that same ice, Bruce's body went cold. His thoughts summoned the words of Applejack, echoing across time: _Y'see, both the boss and Wen-_di_-go like fun stuff... _Slink_ don' think like that. Thinks _much _smaller. Goes after women... Got six of 'em, b'fore the cops got to 'im. All pretty young __**redheads**__... 'S the way 'e _got_ 'em, I suppose, tha' made 'em lock 'im up—_

All of a sudden, Temperance's blood-colored hair had never been more unwelcome.

"_Slink!_ Ya _listenin'_ to _me?_" demanded the Joker, and only his menacing tone seemed to prevent Slink from releasing Giedre entirely—even then, it was obvious that the jester was being mostly ignored. A huff of exasperation cleared the clown's abnormal lips, but then his brown eyes followed Slink's line of sight, and the red maw twisted into a smirk. A new look stole across his painted face: a strange, boyish sort of excitement, the sort of expression a schoolyard bully makes when he sees a new kid on the playground.

Bruce was a mere second from elbowing the Joker in the solar plexus, his injury notwithstanding. For some reason, at the sight of the clown eying Temperance, a wild rage reared up within him—he fully believed that the Batman was inside his chest, clawing madly to escape into the physical world. But then the jester's gaze slid back to Slink's face, brown eyes twinkling slyly, mouth puckered into a mischevious grin, and at this Bruce's insides cooled, tempered by the twin emotions of confusion and curiosity. What was the clown possibly playing at _now?_ Surely he had reasons for this behavior. With a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach, Bruce knew that whatever it was, such a reason could not be pleasant in the slightest.

The next moment Bruce was yanked along, dragged toward his employee, who narrowed her green eyes into something just short of a glare as he and the clown approached. Her gaze flickered back and forth between the jester and his prisoner—_don't show anything, _Bruce prayed, _don't show anything, don't say anything_—and, though he thought her face was especially stony when it glanced at him, she still gave no indication that she knew him.

_Of course, _he thought. _She's Silhouette, isn't she? She was under my nose for weeks before I figured her out. So she's got to be like me—she's got to be a good actor._ Nevertheless, a tinge of nervousness plagued his insides, and though he knew he should avoid looking at her, he could not tear his gaze away. When she understood that he was staring, Temperance seemed to drop all pretense and gazed directly at her employer, sullen-faced, her sharp green eyes raking over him, an accusing, challenging stare, a "what-have-you-gotten-me-into-now?" sort of look. Still she said nothing.

_Just don't do anything stupid. I want to fire you, not see you die_, Bruce mentally pleaded. And the part of him that was Batman added, _besides, if you're Silhouette, you could be useful._

Oblivious to his charge's thoughts, the Joker seemed to be suppressing chuckles as he neared the redhead, his movements so exaggerated that he almost was prancing, jerking Bruce along. This has to look ridiculous, Bruce thought, a sense of shame enveloping him. On his arm the jester's hand burned—he only hoped that his face wasn't reddening as well.

_Being led around like a dog on a leash. Like a disobedient little kid._ He was never so happy that Temperance didn't know of his other identity. Doubtless Silhouette, with her scornful attitude, would have something mocking and derisive to say...

And at that thought, a disconcerting notion occurred to Bruce—a realization of a disjoint between the behavior of his employee and his fellow vigilante. When he had deducted the connection between Temperance and Silhouette, he had focused mostly upon physical characteristics: height, weight, eye color, and one glare she had given him, when he had caught her after she had tripped. But these were not all a person was. Every individual had their own personality, an attitude and flair that was only highlighted to extreme amounts in those who donned costumes. Bruce himself knew from experience that it was possible to divide oneself into two roles—Batman and Bruce Wayne were proof of that—but he also knew that despite this, a human being was a concentrated whole, something that a masked self could never fully split in half.

And yet... somehow he could not imagine Temperance ever being as grandiose as Silhouette. She was too proper, too prim, too rule-obsessed. His last encounter with his fellow vigilante replayed through his mind, as he tried to picture Temperance saying anything that had come out of Silhouette's mouth, from "_It's all right, sir! _Silhouette _is here to save you!_" to "_I'm not going to let you get away that easily!_ _One day I'll have that bounty, and your reign of terror on the streets will be over!_" He almost laughted at himself then, for conjuring up an image so utterly ludicrous. Even with her temper, Temperance did not suit such phrasings—if anything, her anger was menacing, not flamboyant.

_What if... what if she's just a girl who takes taekwondo or whatever in her spare time? _He reflected, though he almost instantly rebelled against such a notion. _But what other explanation can there be? Why would I have come to that conclusion at all unless there was something, some gut feeling telling me so? She _must_ be Silhouette._

Or was this wishful thinking—both currently and in the past? What if he had allowed his dislike of her to cloud his judgement? It was the same question he had asked himself on Wednesday night, mere minutes before the Joker's appearance at Barnes' party. And he had no better answer now than he had before.

Bruce's whirling thoughts were cut short when he and the Joker finally came within arm's reach of the redhead, who stood her ground, though her features became stonier and stonier with every step closer they took. Bruce was not sure if he should have been pleased or distressed by this.

"Outta the way, _darlin'_," quipped the clown, brusquely, pausing only to leer at Temperance as he lifted his free arm to push her aside. But she saw the gloved hand coming—and finally she reared away, staggering back several steps before he could touch her, eyeing him like a wild animal. The clown must have thought this funny, for the rictus grin again split his mouth. Then he glanced once more at Slink, and Bruce's own gaze followed when he heard Giedre whimper.

The source of the ambassador's new distress was no mystery: Slink's hands, on her arms, were squeezing so hard that they had to be cutting off blood flow. Bruce nearly winced, imaging the bruises that were forming. As if Giedre didn't have enough signs of mistreatment—he wanted to yell at Slink to _just let go_, but didn't dare. If the gray man released her, the injured woman would doubtless collapse. Her feet weren't even level with the ground, but hung from her body, useless as the legs of a puppet with cut strings.

And as for Slink himself...

It took Bruce a moment to realize what he was seeing—Slink, the gray shadow, the living mist... was _animated_. Nonexistent lips were pressed so closely together that his mouth was more a crease than an actual orifice; yet this did not conceal the fact that his molars were obviously grinding together. Bruce had the sudden vision of a starving dog, gnashing its teeth simply because this gave the illusion of chewing something, a brief relief from the torment of hunger. And it _was_ hunger in Slink's gray eyes—though they were no longer gray, but a more compact, dark and bloody color. A vicious appetite had him straining his head forward, even if his feet remained planted on the floor. Indeed Slink seemed no longer to be an ethereal fog, but was at once a solid, concrete creature, taking on color and lifelike features before Bruce's very eyes. But while the billionaire had found Slink's wraithlike tendencies disturbing, they were still better than this, this sudden vibrancy at the mere sight of Bruce's redhaired employee.

Unconciously, Bruce gripped his hands into fists—the Joker must have picked up on this motion somehow, for he glanced at his captive. Had that been _surprise_ on the clown's features, Bruce wondered? He certainly hoped not; the monster did not need yet another reason to bring even more attention to Temperance.

But whatever the maniac was about to do, he was interrupted by a strangled whimper from the nearby teller. The old woman's hands were shaking wildly now, and she was almost doubled over, wheezing. _Panic attack_, Bruce thought. _At least, I hope that's all_ _ it is... and if it's something worse, then God help her._

His mind strayed briefly to Alfred—he wanted to ask Temperance, was Alfred all right? Was his butler still sick? Had his capture done something to his old friend? Surely Alfred had been affected... But Bruce could not risk talking to her, of course, though this knowledge did not stop the ache that welled up in his heart. Deep within, even the Batman seemed to rumble regret.

If Bruce had in the slightest forgotten about the Joker's inherent cruelty, then the way the clown was watching the teller was all the reminder he would have needed. There was a sick fascination in the jester's eyes, bright and sharp despite their muddy-brown color, as he observed the teller doubling over her desk, her trembling hands flopping about like fish removed from water. Gritting his teeth, Bruce had to look away.

"Brandy!" the Joker hollered, and for an absentminded moment Bruce thought the monster was calling for a drink—_you sicko, _he wanted to snarl, _treating this like a show!_ But then the teenaged goon promptly appeared beside them, reminding Bruce of her presence. She was lugging a heavy bag, perhaps a quarter of her tubby size, and she barely managed to heave it up on the empty booth next to the teller's.

"I'm comin', I'm comin', hold yer horses," she huffed, dusting herself down, as if work was below her status. She eyed the teller as she readjusted her baseball cap, earrings jiggling and brushing her shoulders. "You okay, lady?"

The old woman was beyond speech.

"_Now_ then, Brucie," the clown addressed his prisoner, and Bruce made a determined point to stare right back into the brown eyes. "Why don't you _tell_ the, _uh_, nice _lady_ behind the counter who you are?_ Hmm?_"

Without another word the monster stepped behind him, placing gloved hands on his back and shoving so hard that Bruce nearly collided with the front of the teller's desk. He raised his hands to catch himself on the edge of it, wincing as his elbow throbbed at the movement—the clown "_tsked"_ at him for this, but he dismissed the noise. The billionaire had a moment to observe the table: scattered bank notes, a pen tied to the counter, and the empty sheath of a pen-holder that was painted gold.

_No_, the Batman corrected him, _it's too thin and long of a slot for a pen, must be for a missing letter opener or a penknife_—_shame it's gone, it could have been useful._

Any further thoughts were interrupted by the return of the clown's hands, this time on his shoulders, pressing him down so he was face-to-face with the teller, who was still wheezing, bent double on her desk like a beached whale. Bruce didn't want to give the jester more reasons for cruelty—he quickly decided to play along.

"Bruce Wayne," he told the old woman, quietly, as if afraid something else would slip out if he kept his mouth open long enough. Apparently this was not satisfying to the clown, however.

"Did you_ get_ that?" the jester asked the teller, before turning back to Bruce, "Speak _up_, young man. You, _aha_, know _old people_—can't _hear_ if you don't _shout_."

Gritting his teeth, Bruce sucked in a deep breath, ignored the resultant throb from his injury, and spoke clearly. "Bruce Wayne."

He received a slap on the back of his head for his troubles.

"That's _no way_ to talk to a _lady_, Brucie! Be _polite_ to your elders!"

_I_, Bruce thought, _am going to turn around, shove my fingers up his nose, and yank the Joker's brains out._

Fortunately, before Bruce could potentially attempt to wreak his fantasy upon the clown's nostrils, Brandy reappeared in his vision. The girl had the gall to half-skip around the counter, earrings swinging, until she stopped next to the teller.

"'Scuse me," she said. "I need your computer, lady."

The old woman could only stare back, wheezing—Brandy awkwardly patted her on the arm, but received no further response. Helplessly, the girl glanced at the jester, shrugging like a teenager being asked to explain a dent in a new car door.

Wordlessly, the Joker released Bruce, stood up straight, and reached over the counter to shove the teller off the table. The woman let out a gasp of surprise at the monster's touch, but made no resistance, crumpling limply to the floor. Her rasped breathing could still be heard.

Behind him, Bruce heard Temperance draw a sharp breath. _Now she's upset_, he thought sourly. _I'm treated like a dog and that's fine, but oh no, push the teller, and she's upset_. At the same time he felt a sense of shame well up within him at such cold thoughts, and only the fact that his position over the table allowed him to see that the old woman was alright prevented him from audibly scolding himself.

"Oh," said Brandy, as the Joker eyed her coldly. "Well, that works."

The clown rolled his eyes, lips twitching to prevent a huff from escaping. Bruce felt the monster's hand descend to the center of his back, keeping him pressed prone on the table, and knew that the Joker's attention was centered on him.

"Now, Brucie," said the jester, "you have something I _want_."

Bruce withheld a flinch when the purple fingers tightened, clenching the back of his tux, hauling him upright. He stared into probing brown eyes, as the monster leaned nonchalantly against the counter beside him, a sly smile lurking below the marred surface of his cheeks.

"Normally I don't _need_ this sort of thing... but I've been rather strapped for cash. Then... _you_ came along."

The Joker moved both his hands to himself, absentmindedly picking at stray threads of his gloves, not bothering to keep a close eye on Bruce—there was no better sign of his dismissal, his obvious superiority, than the fact that he felt no need to fear Bruce lashing out at him. And, though the vigilante knew how right the clown was, this did not stop him from wishing he could knock out a tooth or two.

"Aside from the _lovely_ company you've provided," the monster paused a moment, chuckled loudly, "I've also _heard_ things about you. You buy _what_ you want, _when_ you want it. My kind of guy, knows what he wants, an' how to get it—how _admirable_. Well, aside from your reliance on _money_, but I'm sure we could tame you of that, _mm?_"

When the brown eyes flickered to find Bruce's face, he could think of nothing else than to nod, a sinking feeling persisting in his stomach. Oddly enough, however—or perhaps not so oddly, given that he had trained himself to favor the _fight_ response when it came to fight-or-flight situations—the sensation of sinking seemed to lend an extra tension to his hands, which clenched tighter into fists. If the Joker noticed this, he gave no indication.

"How many..._uh_, billions do you have, again?" The clown picked at his teeth, eying Bruce like a ravenous bum confronted with a sandwich. "I may have looked it up on Wiki-_pedia_, but I forget the figure. You're, _aha_, right behind some dictator, right? Some guy who owns an entire country. Tell us, Brucie—what is your _total worth?_"

_So that's what this was all for, then_, Bruce thought. _So much for anarchy and rule of chaos. You need the real world just as much as anybody else, you maniac. Whatever you're planning, whoever you're planning it with, _they_ at least still care about profit, don't they? I'll bet that rankles you, makes you angry, that you're reduced to scrounging for cash when you should be out there having your brand of fun._

"Thirty-three point eight billion." The figure tasted bitter in Bruce's mouth—in saying it aloud, he knew all too well what even a small amount from that sum could do in the Joker's hands. His tongue must have sensed his reluctance, for he also blurted out, "Give or take a million or two."

"Hm_mm_, nice, very nice," purred the jester. "So... how's about forking some of that my way? How much? Let's see... _huh_, perhaps a mere _billion._ Seems you'll, _aha_, have _plen -_ty to _spare._"

What?

Bruce swallowed, mouth dry, the clench of his fists wavering. What was the Joker _thinking?_ It was only natural that a thug like him wouldn't know much about finance, but to be _this_ ignorant... it would be a poor thing indeed, to have survived so long in the clown's clutches, only to die over a stupid mistake about the nature of true wealth. All Bruce could do was try to explain reality to the jester—for all the good that would do.

"That's... that's _impossible._ You can't mean—"

"Are you," interrupted the clown, snidely,"or are you _not_, a _billion_-aire, Mister _Wayne?_"

"I am," the younger man answered, "but... a _billion dollars?_ I don't have that kind of money just lying around! _Nobody _has that amount in loose cash. It's all in stocks, in bonds, in land... even all of my bank accounts put together won't equal anything _near_ a billion dollars. It would take weeks to raise that kind of money. I'd have to sell Wayne Manor ten times over to—"

"I'm not in-_ter-_ested in real estate," the Joker broke in. "All I want is the numbers in _your_ bank accounts to be lowered, and the numbers in _my_ bank account to be raised. It's not that hard, Brucie."

"Aren't you listening? I don't _have_—"

"I don't care what you _don't_ have," said the clown. "It's what you _do_ have that interests me. I want it. All of it."

His plum-gloved hand shot out, so quickly that Bruce flinched, expecting to be slapped. Instead, the captive found a purple finger pointed in his face, so close it could have poked his eye out. The Batman wanted him to bare his teeth in a feral snarl, while his inner Bruce Wayne had the notion that staying very still, like a frightened rabbit, was infinitely more preferable. Bruce himself had to struggle to go for the latter option, only suppressing the former with formidable difficulty.

_If I don't find some sort out outlet, some sort of balance for the Batman_, the thought came, _it's guaranteed I'll lose it before this is through. He just pushing all my buttons, and I feel like I might just explode..._

"Think of it," purred the monster, finger tapping Bruce's nose, "as your donation to the _Anarchy-for-kids_ program, shoving brutal reality in sops' faces for the past million and a half years of human existence."

"I won't be able to access my bank accounts." The sentence was eerily calm, and somehow it also managed to ease not only Bruce's rapid thoughts but dampened the Batman's inner rage as well. Bruce wasn't sure what part of him was speaking—perhaps, just perhaps, this was the _real_ him, the nameless third self, whoever he was when he wasn't roleplaying as either billionaire playboy or costumed vigilante. In any case, the silence that followed was far louder than any immediate response the Joker could have made.

In the corner of his vision, Bruce saw Brandy tense behind the counter, the teenager's motions lapsing into stillness. While he and the Joker had been arguing the details of finance, she'd been busy pulling computer components from the heavy bag on the next table, occasionally stepping over the teller's prone body on the floor as she lugged one piece of equipment after another, hooking parts into the bank's computers. Yet no matter how foolish Brandy was—and Bruce would be one of the first to admit that he thought the child was a true idiot—even she could feel the tense silence left behind by his last statement, and she looked ready to duck to the floor beside the teller. Before her, the clown was standing quite still, eyes piercing, probing, but seemingly reserving judgment. There was no smile on his shredded gums.

At least the jester was giving him the chance to explain himself, Bruce thought.

"You should realize this," he told the monster. "I'm a rich man. My company has policies on ransoms and kidnapping. The minute I was declared missing—and if not at that point, then especially after your video threat—all the passwords on my personal accounts were automatically changed. I probably couldn't even log on to my e-mail, let alone try and transfer funds, whether they're private or public. For all intents and purposes, at the moment I'm a complete pauper."

The plum glove lowered away from Bruce's nose—even the Joker looked as if he was trying to decide whether Bruce was being brave or very, very stupid. Behind him Temperance was obviously holding her breath, even as she was trying not to show it. It occurred to Bruce that she, as his employee, would probably still be able to access the basic accounts for Wayne Manor: but the clown didn't know her identity, and Bruce himself felt that it was best to keep things that way. He refused to allow himself to even glance in her direction.

"I'm useless to you, if money's what you want," he continued. "The same is probably—no, make that absolutely—true for Ambassador Giedre. We're useful for hostages, I'll grant you that much. A foreign ambassador and the Prince of Gotham; that's a lot of publicity. But publicity also means no money. If you want money that bad, then you're going to have to raid the vault. If you can."

A look of... _amusement_ passed over the clown's face, bringing Bruce pause. But when the Joker still said nothing, the younger man simply finished, lamely: "And that's all."

He didn't quite know what to expect—but as the monster lifted his hands and clapped, a slow, echoing noise that rang in everyone's ears—somehow Bruce was not surprised, even though with the first collision of the jester's hands he flinched as the resounding _crack!_ almost physically assaulted him. Temperance shrank back another step, eyebrows creased into a frown. Clearly she thought the clown was mad.

"_Bravo_," said the Joker, ceasing his applause. "Abso-_bal-_ute-_ly_ amazing acting, Bruce. You should be on Broadway, kiddo, with a, aha, _steely_ face like that. The knight stares down his dragon—_eh?—_and says, '_heck with you_,_ motha_.' But... alas, I must give you only an eight-point-five out of ten... for your stupidity. Not that _anything_ you've said is _wrong_, o'course—"

And then a purple hand reached forward, with deliberate slowness, and grabbed the front of Bruce's tux. The billionaire was hauled forward, toe-to-toe with the clown, so close that their noses almost touched and he could smell the rancid breath, so close that nobody else could hear when the jester said softly,

"Your _mistake_ is thinkin' that _I _have to hear it."

Bruce frowned—he tried not to, but failed. It was a reaction born of confusion, as much as it was of distrust and a healthy amount of revulsion over the closeness of his enemy, whose brown eyes seemed determined to drill through his own blue ones and straight into his brain.

But the Joker cannot read minds. He. Cannot. Read. Minds.

Small comfort, at this point.

"I'll admit," said the clown, "having the billion would've been _nice_. You know, an extra indulgence here-and-there, a couple rocket launchers, maybe a hooker or two—wouldn't you like some company, Brucie? gotta be missing your _girls_, after all—but still, I really don't need _much_. Just whatever you have, _give it to me_."

"I just told you," Bruce replied, through gritted teeth. "I don't have_ anything._"

"Brucie," tsked the monster, tilting his head slightly, only now eyeing him like an owl does a mouse, "you're beginning to _disappoint_."

"Why won't you listen? The bank has money. I _don't_—"

"I _know_ how the world works." The declaration was so low that even Bruce, despite his closeness, had to strain to understand it. "I've never been _rich_, Brucie, not like you, but I know how you people operate. If I wanted _cash_, we'd of raided the place, and been _outta_ here by now. I've been a thief for as long as I can remember, and believe me—I _know_ when the bandit is pushing his welcome. Cops might already be outside as it is. But what I need is the _digital_ stuff. The stuff that you can move from country to country with a password and a mouse click. And I know that you—big, rich, hoity-toity billionaire boy _Wayne_, Prince of Gotham—_you're_ up there with the big leaguers, and they all have their own _private _accounts. The ones that nobody else knows about, not their current wives, not their companies or butlers, not even the _government_. The ones that, when they get convicted of statuatory rape 'cause of that _fourteen-year-old hooker_, they tap into when they flee _abroad_."

And at that, Bruce knew exactly what the clown was talking about.

He didn't keep money secret from a spouse that did not—that could never—exist, nor did he need to worry about the consequences of some sexual misadventure, no matter what his tabloid reputation. But he _did_ have a reason all his own to launder cash away from his more legal ventures...

A reason with a cape and cowl.

It must have shown on his face—he must have given something away, because the Joker smiled, the black greasepaint around his eyes crinkling.

"Oh, yes," mused the clown. "_Jogged_ your memory, did I? I know it, don't bother trying to play me—that's crossing the line from stupidity to _idiocy_, Brucie, and idiots don't last long in the real world. I know I'm right, because when it comes to this life there's a few constants, and one of 'em is: _everyone cheats_. Tell me, Brucie—what _name_ do _you_ cheat under?"

"I don't." His throat was dry. He didn't dare reveal it—_that_ account, the one that only Alfred knew about, the one that Alfred _might not have changed_, not if Bruce's kidnapping had in any way affected his old friend... the Batman's source of funds, for a suit worth half a million, a car worth twenty million, and a good number of expensive toys and gadgets besides... the same account that he'd been patiently siphoning money into for _years_, that he'd stored extra capital in, just in case the Batman ever encountered a bump in the road... there had to be a good eighty million in it. Eighty million dollars that did not belong to Wayne Enterprises, to Gotham City, to Bruce Wayne—eighty million that belonged to the _Batman_, completely untraceable, absolutely perfect if the Joker wanted money quick, and fast, and worry-free.

_Batman's money_. The money that was supposed to help save Gotham—in the hands of the _Joker_, of all people, being used to do who knew what... there was irony here, real and sharp and bitter, and the thought of the clown winning such a psychological victory, whether the monster knew of his triumph or not, made the Dark Knight want to scream in fury.

"Bruce," hissed the jester. The tone was one of impatience, and for the first time the younger man saw the urgency in the monster's face, realized the honesty in what the maniac had said. _Cops might already be outside as it is._ If only he could stall, maybe a bit longer...

But even as this thought came, Bruce knew that the Joker would never allow such a thing. Time had all but run out—there was no more game to be played; this, to the clown, had become business. Still, when at his continued silence the monster's mouth quirked, his eyes never leaving Bruce's, the billionaire did not expect the maniac's next words.

"Auguste," said the monster, "_kindly_ take our dear Ambassador from our good friend, Slink. He _really_ is being too _rough_ on her."

Startled, Bruce's vision turned immediately to the people in question: he would have sighed with relief for Giedre, if he hadn't felt something like a heavy, chilled rock settling in his gut. Auguste was a short man—shorter than Giedre—and when he took her from Slink, she had to sink to her knees for him to support her from grabbing her upper arms. In the end, as a dead weight she proved too heavy for him, and he lowered her, carefully, to the floor.

Released of his burden, Slink clenched his hands into fists; as well as he could, at least, seeing as his left thumb was missing. He looked like a dog, straining at a rope, waiting for his master's command, his nose pointed directly at his redheaded target. In Bruce's stomach, the rock doubled in size.

The Joker turned his head to face Slink, letting out a low whistle, and for a second Bruce was struck with the absurdity of his mental metaphor made into reality, as if the clown was going to make the gray man play fetch. Then Bruce realized that the Joker's eyes had not left his face, but instead the brown orbs were trained on his blue ones as closely as the beach sands hug the ocean's shoreline.

"Isn't she _pretty, _Slink?"

Temperance went slack with shock, briefly, before tensing again. Her attention was immediately on Slink's form, switching from Bruce and the clown to the new threat. And in Bruce's gut, the heavy rock was replaced by an empty feeling, a vacuum. Dread.

"Never been partial to _redheads_, myself," said the Joker, clucking, "so you... you _always_ get them to yourself, eh? Would you _like_ this one?"

_He's toying with him_, Bruce realized. _He's actually _toying_ with him, just like how he toys with me._

"Still... she's _rather_... oh, what's the word?" The jester mused. "Ah. _Cute_. That's it. _Girly_. Some guys go for that, I think. Never really _tried_ it, m'self."

_Are you insane_, Bruce wanted to shout. _Why are you egging him on? Do you think this is funny, playing with a tiger?_

But he didn't yell—instead, all he could give voice to was one word:

"Stop."

He didn't know what affect this plea would have; in reality, it had none. For the Joker was already continuing, his words coming faster, more hurried.

"Can't _imagine_ what her scream would sound like—between you an' me, Slink_-o_, we _both_ know that everyone's screamsounds_ just a bit different_—"

"_Stop!_"

Again Bruce was ignored. The Joker was on a roll, now, his hands animated, twisting and tightening their grip on the billionaire's tux, holding him still, even as Bruce found himself instinctually attempting to place himself between Temperance and Slink, who had begun to inch closer to her, sliding his feet centimeter by centimeter. She didn't move, merely gripped her hands tightly behind her back, and if Bruce hadn't known better he might have thought that she was hiding something—but he had no time to think, panic was already beginning to grow, his resolve fluttering and falling, failing just a bit more with every beat of his rapidly hammering heart.

"What would you _say_, Slink, what would you _do?_ I know it's different with every one, but surely you have _some_ sort of game plan... or do you just do a sort of _go with the flow_ sort of thing? That'd be the ticket, I'd pay money to _watch_ that—"

"Matches." The single word was out of Bruce's mouth before he realized it, but there was no regret once he understood what he had spoken.

"_Eh_, Brucie?" asked the Joker, glibly, eyebrows rising. "Making _suggestions_, are we?"

"The name." Such dull words; Bruce was not surprised that his voice fell flat. "For my hidden account. Matches Malone."

"Brandy, dear, get cracking," was the Joker's response. The teenager remained silent, her face shock white at the scene before her. Her fingers trembled as she typed.

But Brandy's new understanding over what sort of crowd she had gotten herself into did not interest Bruce in the slightest—for Slink was still advancing, and Temperance has begun to tremble, and the Joker's eyes had still not strayed from Bruce's face. He stared back the clown—the freak, the monster, the barbaric animal that dared to paint its distorted face in flashy colors, so that none might see it without recognition.

_Come on,_ Bruce thought. _You want to be the "good guy," remember? You want to trick me into believing you can be trusted, into thinking of you as a fatherly figure. Where is your false kindness, now? This is the perfect opportunity, you know. Let me think that you can play fair. Stop this. Stop this now._

The Joker seemed to be taking enjoyment from Bruce's uncertainty, and only with seeming reluctance did he speak again.

"Slink," the clown ordered, brown eyes boring into blue, "hold up a minute."

Bruce almost sagged in the monster's arms when Slink paused in his advance—relief coursed through the vigilante, so strong and sudden that he felt, in those few seconds, as if he was weightless. A deep breath whooshed out of him, something he hadn't known he'd been holding in, and when the world righted itself after those few instants of emotional outpouring, he could not stop the slight trembles of relief that remained.

"_Matches_," mused the Joker, half giddy, releasing one hand from the front of Bruce's shirt in order to pound a fist on the billionaire's shoulder—an odd motion, very much as if they had somehow become _chums_. The clown was practically shaking Bruce, giggling in his glee. "Such a _fun_ mon-_i_-ker, Brucie! Do you... _mind_ if I call you 'Matches' some-_times?_ Ha! So very appropriate for your _new self_—one day you'll use it all the time, if I have_ my_ way..."

"Oh?" was all Bruce replied with, though internally the Batman was seething: there were only two names he truly answered to, and "Matches" was not one of them. Bruce managed not to shout out that he already had a proper alias, one that also began with a "B," but this was mostly due to Brandy piping up, her voice shaking.

"Found it, Boss."

"How much?" Asked the clown, though he quickly added, as an aside to his captive, almost as if he expected Bruce to take offense, "Not that I don't _trust_ you, Brucie boy..."

Brandy was obviously counting zeroes, before she made her answer. "Something over seventy-eight mil, Boss."

Bruce kept his face straight, emotionless, as the monster whistled. When he was asked for the password, he gave it with little hesitation, distancing himself from the act, while the Batman prowled in the back of his head, growling under its breath over the wrong it was now enduring. The wrong that _Gotham_ was now enduring. But Bruce did not give the Batman the option of voicing its discontent: he did not give himself the option to voice anything, not trusting himself to hold back dangerous information. At this point, his control was in such tatters, that silence itself was the best option.

He tried not to think about the reasons he had saved that money, the plans he had for the funds to help Gotham—not just for a new Tumbler, but other things as well: homeless shelters that Bruce Wayne could not be connected to; Narrows bridges that would have benefited greatly from an anonymous donor; hookers who wanted out of their business, desperate to escape from pimps who took every cent, who would have been able to start new lives with little more than two thousand dollars... all those causes replaced by death, destruction, and mayhem. More chaos, more filth flooding the streets... Bruce felt ill at the concept of it, felt his hands become dirty as he heard Brandy announce that she'd finished transferring the funds. _His_ funds—no, the _Batman's_ funds, now used for the complete opposite of what he stood for. He was financing mass murder. Nothing had even happened yet, and he was already guilty.

And somehow, even though it shamed him, he could not stop the angry little voice in the back of his head, which blamed Temperance. _If_ _she hadn't been here_...

_Then the Joker would have found another way to get to me_, the rational side of his brain finished, as the Joker's hand gripped his arm once more, tugging him. Bruce made no resistance, eyes hooded, jaw set. Even the Batman agreed: silence was currently the best policy, he needed time to wrap his mind around what he had just done... _then_ he could bash the Joker's head in.

"O-_kay_, we've had our fun," the monster said, and it took Bruce a second to realize that the maniac was speaking to everyone, motioning with his free hand at his thugs, shooing gestures to scare away pigeons. Brandy packed up her bag, throwing components in haphazardly, almost desperate to flee. Applejack helped Auguste hoist the groaning ambassador from the floor.

_Just let her go_, Bruce wanted to say, _you've got me, I'll do whatever else you want if you let her go_. But he couldn't bring himself to make such a promise. He settled for, "She needs to go to the hospital, Joker."

At his name passing through Bruce's lips—and with such ease, too—the monster smiled, but it was a grim expression. Serious, even. All he said back was, "Auguste's useful for _something_, kid."

_Unless he's a trained nurse, that's not comforting_, Bruce responded mentally. Then he saw the expert way that the goon cradled Giedre's head, and wondered if such a thing were possible: within him, the Batman recalled how, after the Joker's sudden shaking yesterday evening, the jester's thoughts had immediately turned to the asylum staff—_and_ Auguste. In a way it made sense: the clown couldn't suffer what he had without some sort of medical support, although Bruce wouldn't put it past the maniac to try...

But the curiosity aroused by these newfound observations was quickly subdued, as Bruce's focus switched to one fact: all the other goons were leaving, but Slink remained motionless.

_He has to leave_, Bruce thought. _He has to, the Joker will make him leave just like everyone else_... yet it then occurred to him that he didn't know enough about the power structure of the Joker's gang to say with certainty whether the clown _could_ order such a thing. According to Applejack, the monster had spent time in Arkham with two other individuals, Slink and this "Wendigo," whoever he was—but of the three, Slink had obviously been the weakest in will, for Bruce had not seen hide or hair of Wendigo and could thus conclude that he was off somewhere else, likely with his own men, possibly rivaling the Joker. That Slink was in the clown's camp meant that he did not have enough personal power to hold a group of his own—and that he was somewhat more in thrall with Joker, rather than Wendigo... but the possibility of Slink holding personal independence... surely the Joker would not, could not allow that. How would he maintain control when a member of his group could act as he pleased? It defied the laws of gang interaction...

Yet already Bruce was feeling it return, despite his attempts to remain detatched, emotionally dampened: dread. Settling in his chest, making him breathe that much deeper, wishing the cool air could calm down his quickening pulse. He paused for just one step, resisting the Joker's grip just enough, drawing the jester's attention to him. And he knew the monster knew what he wanted.

"Slink," called the clown, pausing between the doorposts, to turn and face his cohort. Bruce didn't dare turn and look as well; instead, he watched the monster's face, squinting in the fresh outside light of the setting sun, and waited for him to call to the gray man, to order him to come outside with the rest of the goons, back to wherever the underground hideaway was...

But the Joker only winked. Bruce's mouth dropped open at the clown's final order:

"Have fun."

And at that point, the duties and desires of _Bruce Wayne_ was the last thing on the his mind: it was _the Batman_ who reared up in Bruce's psyche, with all the force of a volcanic eruption, shoving all other thought aside with the power of a hurricane—nothing short of a natural disaster took hold of him, as he lost all control in the whirlwind of the vigilante's maelstrom.

"_You filthy degenerate!_"

This was all the warning the Joker had: the next second, an elbow plunged into the clown's gut. The jester doubled over, wheezing, spitting blood—Bruce turned to run back to Slink, and would have sent the gray man down as well, were it not for two things: firstly, that in his rage he had forgotten that _Bruce_ was a necessary component in planning the Batman's actions, and secondly, because of this, he had used his injured elbow to make the blow. The resultant shock of pain, dampened though it was by adrenaline, slowed him just enough that the nearby Applejack was able to make a grab at him: in twisting to avoid the goon's grasp, he felt a gloved hand clutch at his ankle. Bruce knew it was over before he even hit the floor, facefirst, unable to brace himself for the fall because of his injury. He landed hard enough to knock the air from his lungs, having just enough time to hear Temperance's scream before the combined grips of the Joker and Applejack yanked roughly, dragging him outside.

They dogpiled him on the steps, uncaring as sharp stone bit into his back, his side, his neck. Giedre lay forgotten on the sidewalk as even Auguste rushed him, only Brandy and the Joker holding back—the girl cowering, the clown gasping for breath. It would have been the beating of Bruce's life, were it not for the fact that the closeness of their bodies prevented them from giving him hard blows, though their combined weight crushed him quite effectively. Somehow in the chaos the Joker managed to get his air: peals of laughter echoed down the street, and if Bruce had been able he would have seen a terrified bum scurrying for cover a block away. At last the monster's shouting broke in over the confusion.

"Don't _hit_ him, _grab_ him! You bunch'a lazy cusses, you wanna _ruin_ the _best thing_ that's come along in _years?_ Why, he gives _Bats_ a run for his money! _Money! _A_-ha!_ Auguste—stop lazin' and _give_ it to him!"

A glint of metal: too small to be a knife, too small to get a good look. Only when it bit into his neck did Bruce recognize the needle for what it was. There was a moment of unbridled panic as he shouted and cursed and struggled harder than even he had ever thought he could, but then it was over. Bruce expected his body to betray him, to become heavy and sluggish... yet the opposite happened and he suddenly felt lighter than air; his head might've swelled like a balloon for all the foggy emptiness it now contained; he realized that he was laughing. He had tried most of the illegal substances, under controlled conditions, to better understand and identify each one if he should ever come into contact with them—but this was _unlike_ _anything_ he had ever before experienced, and he had no way to stop himself as he laughed right alongside the Joker, gasping for ever more scarce air as their twin hysterics resonated through their scorched lungs. Then, colors shifted in Bruce's vision, and the world vibrated, and the eyes of everyone became twin coals.

"No," he found himself gasping, "No that's _not_ true..."

He _had_ felt this before. He had felt this... maybe a week ago... and before that, he had been doused by the same man, a filthy potato bag over his head, bats swarming... yes, he had felt this in the care of Ducard, he had been high on it when he had destroyed the temple of the League of Shadows. If he dug deep enough inside, he could still sense the inner fear, taste the dark terror that made what was left of the Batman within him snarl horribly—because for whatever reason, this drug, this hideous, unnatural compound, made him not scream in the presence of his nightmares, as he well should have, but instead made him laugh at them. Laugh _with_ them. The whole world was a joke...

Then he was gone: he might have felt hands moving him, might have recognized that he was beginning to have tunnel vision, hyperventilating... but he was laughing too hard to care. He was laughing at Temperance, trapped with Slink in the bank; at Alfred, sick and alone at home; at Gordon, in the hospital; at Giedre, hurt and shivering beside him. Then he was laughing at Dent's disfigured face; at Rachel, blown to bits; at Ducard's shocked expression as he left his mentor to plummet to a fiery death...

Bruce knew it was coming—understood, somehow, that he would be made to witness it again, but no amount of preparation could have made this experience bearable. He saw the alley, he heard the noises from the opera house behind him, witnessed the stranger approach, but only a single sob escaped him before the laughter continued. Darkness closed in on him, yet he was still laughing...

One gunshot.

A second gunshot.

The third gunshot that never came, but should have, oh, it _should_ have...

And laughing, and laughing, and laughing...

**000 . Author's Note . 000**

Much apologies... I realize this chapter not very Christmas-y. Let's see... we have hostages, endangered children, painful memories of dying parents and childhood trauma, torturing old people, money laundering, thievery, possible rape, a light beating, drug use, self-loathing... did I leave anything out? Want to raise this fic's rating yet?

Joy to the World, though... NO: **not** _the Joker's_ kind of "joy"—the _healthy_ kind of Joy that involves a miracle baby and peace and goodwill to men, and all that _good_ stuff. So, uh... Merry Christmas?

The phrase "filthy degenerate!" comes from the comic book, _Arkham Asylum: A Serious House on a Serious Earth_.

"Matches Malone" is another identity of Bruce Wayne's in the comics. I like to think that it showed up somewhere in Nolanverse, so I put it in here.

Many thanks to reviewers: Endgame65, Vanafindiel, ChocolatCiel, All Nightmare Long, cory, XxJagzxX, vicky, CountryPixie, scorpiogirl93, blackinky, Shmellington, Ryeo (twice!), Guess, IVIaedhros (twice!), Valid User Name, AsherahRiddle, Almost Funny, Casey, Kichi (3 times!), realityfling18, ceb24, CBA, ocdTwilight.., shyro13, crazikido2, & Rourinu. Kuddos for your patience, guys.


	31. Anger

**IF THE FOUNDATIONS BE DESTROYED, WHAT CAN THE RIGHTEOUS DO?**

I don't own Batman. DC Comics does.

Please note that violence will occur in this story, and that less offensive words like "damn" will be used, but more offensive words will be "asterisked" out. Some sexuality will occur but never anything explicit. As of now this story is rated "T"—if any readers feel the rating needs to be raised, please contact me accordingly and it will be.

A note to readers: several helpful people have reminded me of some things I need to work on. I therefore would ask my readers to help me make sure that I remember to include the following in my story: 1) picking up the pace and adding more elements of plot, rather than just "character study," and 2) not straying too much into introspection, but rather remembering to keep the characters "moving" on the page, i.e. doing something other than just thinking. It's a little late for this chapter (seeing as half of it was written much earlier, and I didn't want to edit it), but if from now on you all could keep an eye on me, and add some hints as to how I'm doing in your reviews, that would be ever so helpful. Thank you!

P.S. Temperance scares me.

**Chapter Thirty-One: Anger**

_Friday, 5:43 P.M._

She stabbed him.

It was not something that Temperance paused to think about—if she had, she would never have had the chance to do it, he attacked so fast. She simply gripped the penknife that she had gotten from the teller's counter as tightly as she could, and rammed it into whatever piece of flesh presented itself first, which turned out to be his shoulder. The gray man had charged her like an American football player, ready to knock her to the floor, but she stabbed and dodged, having no intention of becoming his ball in this sick game. Her intentions didn't stop the scream of panic and adrenaline from clearing her throat, however.

Somehow she found the presence of mind to _twist_ the blade, which she did with as much strength and ill-will as she could muster, but the gray man's howl of pain was cut off from his companions by the bank's doors slamming shut. Vaguely, in the back of her mind, Temperance saw the last image of Master Wayne, as he attempted to charge back into the building and was tackled; the fool, the utter fool, he was probably dead out on the bank's steps right now. Why he had done such a thing, tried to help her, she didn't question—although she did file this information away to ponder later. If there _was_ a later.

She couldn't escape the building. The front entrance was sealed off by more men, and there was no back door readily visible. In the two seconds it took for her eyes to rove the area, the gray man knelt prone, wheezing—and just as her sight caught on the bathroom doors, he managed to get to his knees, yanking the penknife from his shoulder and brandishing it, growling with rage.

She was off in a sprint for the ladies' room, even in her panic going for the more proprietary route rather than the men's. There was barely enough time to take things in: the door had an "Out of Order" sign on it, and once inside she saw why, for the floor smelled of pinesol and there was a mop and wheeled bucket resting at a nearby sink.

Again Temperance acted on autopilot, though oddly enough this time she had the distinct memory of something her husband had once told her. _God plays games with people_, Roger had said, _He always gives them a way out, and lets them do it for themselves_. But that was all: only the quote, no thoughts on her husband himself, nothing on his death, nothing about what he had taught her to do—for she had trained herself not to think of these things, and there certainly was no time for them now. Instead she seized the mop, twirling around to face the door just as her attacker barreled through it.

Temperance didn't swing the mop handle, she _jabbed_. This had also been something her husband had taught her: a puncture wound was preferable to a slash or a bruise. In this instance such advice worked even better than she could have dared hope, for the gray man's momentum carried him into the handle's point with more force than she could have mustered by herself, seeing as she was only half his size. Unfortunately, the same momentum crashed into her as well. She barely managed to avoid being crushed by the opposite end of the mop as the both of them careened across the room, their slide aided by the dirty water from the spilled bucket. Temperance was winded; the gray man was injured, coughing up blood and spitting some of it into her face.

Somehow she righted herself, getting up on hands and knees to scramble for the door. A hand grabbed at her ankle, but only succeeded in relieving her of a shoe. Scuttling along the tile, she caught sight of the penknife and seized it, turning to wield it against another reaching hand, stabbing again. There was a grunt of pain and the gray man twisted, his face scrunched in agony as his other arm was wedged into his abdomen, blood dripping from his shoulder and the corner of his mouth.

"If you want me," Temperance hissed at him, "you'll have to kill me first."

"That's not a problem," wheezed the gray man, and all Temperance could think was: _These Americans are __**crazy**__._

When he reached again, she stabbed once more—he made a twisting motion, avoiding her blow and grabbing at her wrist, but the fact that he was missing a thumb made this easy to avoid. She immediately started to clamber backwards, unwilling to turn her front away from him, and though he made an effort to follow she could see how much strength such a simple action cost him. The mop handle had obviously done more damage than she had initially thought; therefore, once she had a good two meters between them, she decided to risk the chance and leapt to her feet, turning and darting from the room. It was stupid to show her back to him, but she was not made sorry for her gamble.

Out in the main room, a voice called to her: "Ma'am! Ma'am, over here, into the vault!"

She had but a second to identify the speaker: the first teller, who was motioning with jerky panic behind the counters. He was the only one left in the room, and she could only trust that the other customers and the elderly lady teller had preceded her into the vault itself. She darted to the tables, leaping over the counter just as the sound of the door behind her being flung open reached her ears. She didn't need to see the new-found terror in the teller's face as he fled to know that the gray man had obviously left the ladies' room.

It was a close thing. Temperance fairly flung herself through the vault's entrance, and the male teller—hands shaking from fear and exertion—slammed the heavy, circular doorway shut. As he did so an inhuman howl was cut off in mid-scream, and there was a soft noise of an impact as her attacker collided forcefully with the vault's door. But before the gray man had the chance to recover and potentially open the entrance, the teller had the sense of mind to kick a small red box that was beside the doorframe, which was obviously a panic switch of some sort. Temperance heard the groan of several heavy locks snapping into place.

"There," the teller breathed. It seemed like all his strength was gone, however, for he sank to the ground, trembling, in what could only have been the utmost relief.

Huddled together, the other inhabitants of the bank stared at Temperance with wide eyes, with the exception of the two little boys, who were more astounded at the sight of the money and other valuables that now surrounded them. Letting out a huff, pausing to thank the now half-insensate teller, Temperance sat down opposite them, knowing that there was nothing to do now but wait for the police to release the vault's locked door.

"You're bleedin'," one of the children finally told her, with no more inflection in his voice than if he were commenting on the weather.

Raising a hand to her forehead, Temperance grimaced when she realized that the fall in the bathroom must have pulled her stitches.

**000 . d . da . dar . dark . dark k . dark kn . dark kni . dark knig . dark knigh . dark knight . 000**

_Friday, 4:02 P.M. (Previously)_

The first day, they hadn't been so sure that he would make it. Or so they now told him.

Jim Gordon had always hoped that his end would be a little less messy than what most honest cops in Gotham could look forward to. With each of his promotions, the chances of dying in an alley had diminished, the possibility of death by violence shrinking bit by hard-earned bit. Even so, he made a point as Commissioner to lead from the front, often sending himself into situations that he could just as easily have handed to his subordinates. He knew the risks such maneuvers took, but he considered it his duty to provide an example wherever he could.

Due to this policy, last Wednesday evening he'd found himself facing the Joker, this time as one side of a sandwich that encompassed none other than playboy Bruce Wayne. And when he had given up his pistol, knowing that it was going to be his end, a single reflection had come to Jim: dying by the order of the Joker really wasn't that ignoble. It was far better than at the hand of some gutter trash.

Since awakening on Friday morning, Jim had had a lot of time to think back on this concept. Of course, it hadn't been so much a choice of his, to allow himself to be shot—after all, Bruce Wayne was a civilian, and couldn't be risked whether he was famous or not. In the game of cops and robbers, it was the cops who always had the short end of the stick when it came to hostages.

Still… there had been a moment. A single moment, when Gordon had looked into Wayne's eyes, and the thought of gunning them both down had occurred to him. It wasn't so much the logistics of who he was facing that had brought this idea to Jim—after all, Bruce Wayne was a moral scourge upon the city, and the Joker certainly wouldn't be missed—but, rather, the sheer emotion that had shone out of Wayne's blue eyes.

Hatred.

Hatred on a scale that Jim had rarely seen, all of it directed at the clown using Wayne as a human shield. Jim had been momentarily taken aback. What cause did a rich boy have to despise the Joker that much? In fact, it had seemed to Jim that the billionaire might even had been pleading, silently, for him to pull the trigger, to blow them both away on the spot. Gordon had to admit that he'd felt fear in that moment—not just of the Joker, but also of the savagery of the young man being held hostage before him. He'd never known a human shield to be so vengeful before.

In any case, Jim's finger had been on the trigger—it perhaps had even squeezed, just slightly, but the memories of such stressful events were always too hazy to tell such fine details. Yet, though had been Wayne's eyes that had brought him to originally contemplate that shooting would be a good idea, it had equally been Wayne who had stayed Jim's hand. For when he focused too much on those eyes, despite the hatred in them he'd been drawn back in time, to a moment when those same blue orbs had been empty, lost. He was reminded of a small boy, suit splashed with blood, clutching at an expensive coat in a sea of shouting reporters and ignorant policemen.

And, after that, it only made sense for him to throw away his gun. Gordon could not shoot a child—especially _that _child. It would have been worse than murder of a civilian. It would have been like sacrilege. And if that meant his life was forfeit... well, as he'd thought, dying by the hand of the Joker wasn't so ignoble.

"You're thinking too hard," said a cheerful voice, interrupting Jim's thoughts. "It's never good to do that when you're here. You'll go stir crazy."

Shifting uncomfortably in his hospital bed, Jim Gordon turned to his doctor, who bustled up, carrying a clipboard. The physician was a short man, with a bald patch on the back of his head which approximated the size of Harvey Dent's silver dollar. With his bristly white beard, deep voice, and rotund belly, he looked like a pint-sized Santa Claus, and he gave the pleasant impression that if he laughed he would do so with great, big chuckles that would have him quivering from head to toe in sincere merriment.

"Dr. Norton," Jim acknowledged. This had been the man who had been at his bedside, once he had awoken. "What is it?"

"Oh, nothing for you to worry about," said Dr. Norton. He waved a pen at the only other person in the room, the look on his face falling to a grimace for only a moment. "Just checking on _him_."

Jim's eyes followed Norton's gesture, and when they alit upon his unconscious companion his face also twisted—but for him it was a look of anger, mixed with a small amount of uncertain pity. His fellow patient, though senseless, was still chained to the bed. Because the hospital was so stressed for space, and because Jim Gordon and the insensate prisoner were both considered high-risk targets, the police had seen fit to place them in the same room, under the impression that it was easier to guard one room than two.

The other man was none other than one of the Joker's goons.

From what Jim had been able to gather, the idiot had pulled up behind the police lines during Barnes' party, but had been promptly crashed into by a pair of watchful citizens. Now he was in critical condition. But the sooner he awoke, the sooner the possibility that they might learn the location of the Joker's hideaway from his interrogation.

"Nope," said Norton, looking over the man. "It'll be a while yet. Several more hours, at least. Maybe a whole day, and even then it might take a while for his strength to build up enough so he can talk."

"Well," Jim replied, scowling. "I don't care how long it takes—so long as I get the first crack at him."

Norton smiled, somewhat grimly. It was a look that appeared unnatural on his jolly face. "Oh, you need'nt worry about that, Mr. Gordon. You will. You most certainly will."

As Norton continued to bustle about, Jim lay back against his pillows, glaring up at the ceiling. From the window he could still see slivers of light dancing through the curtains. The sun was still up, and when it set...

Surely the Batman would come to see him.

Jim wasn't so sure that was a good idea. The Dark Knight had nearly a million dollars' price on his head, and the citizenry were more skittish of him than ever after months of him being lambasted by the press. The chances of the Bat Man being caught were growing every night—and his appearance at a hospital full of armed guards and policemen would not exactly be the wisest move, even if he likely could enter and exit without being seen.

But who else could the Batman go to? Jim frowned at the thought. Dawes was dead; she'd been the vigilante's staunchest supporter in the DA's office, which was now run by that bat-hating Huerta. Of the police force, Jim alone knew of the knight's innocence in the matter with Dent. Except maybe... well, Jim had had suspicions about Anna Ramirez for some time, and if he was suspicious then surely the Batman would be doubly so. Jim could only pray that the Batman wouldn't try to appear to Gerald Stephens, who likely would only try to clap him in a pair of handcuffs and get busted in the gut for his trouble. And as for the Deputy Commissioner... Jim sighed. It wasn't as if Hartridge's _heart_ wasn't in the right place...

Well, actually it wasn't. The man simply wasn't cut out for police work. His appointment as Vice Commissioner had to do with him being the nephew of the cousin of someone who was important to someone who was important… Jim sighed again. Nepotism in Gotham was a rule of the day.

Maybe the Mayor. Garcia wasn't that bad.

Really.

In all the months since he had broken the searchlight, never had Jim's fingers itched more for the switch of the so-called "bat signal." But there was nothing he could do—nothing but sit in the bed. And wait.

**000 . d . da . dar . dark . dark k . dark kn . dark kni . dark knig . dark knigh . dark knight . 000**

_Friday, 9:58 P.M._

He hated this city.

He seethed at the people's ignorance, at the doctors who had been his colleagues, at the court system he had once participated in. Most of all, he was infuriated by the continued existence of the flying rat that had ruined his life. Every night the Batman had continued to wage his crusade against Gotham's Underworld—unharmed, unmolested, and always victorious. The self-righteous hypocrite had literally gotten away with murder, an inconsistency in the bat's method that, if true, would only serve to inflame his rage even more...

And, in that anger, Jonathan Crane had turned to the one man who would understand.

His loyalty to the Joker was not of the same fervency that possessed the clown's goons. The jester had the charisma of a cult leader, capable of deceiving and deluding until the mentally ill were his converts in an unholy crusade against reason. Yet Crane was incapable of such devotion; it had been beaten out of him long ago. What was more, he knew of his disability, knew that he could never trust or love again; but in his mind this was not so much a handicap as it was a gift in disguise. Without such feel-good emotions, he had unimpeded logic—which had spoken to him of the necessity to tame humanity of its more blessed attributes through the all-powerful mechanism of Fear. Fear was all he had left.

And anger, of course.

Crane had never thought he would enjoy hatred. It seemed like such an illogical emotion—so very _crass._ But now, after he had lost everything, he found that anger was quite the opposite of what he had expected. Instead of driving him to distraction, it brought him focus. By meditating on it, he found that his work became even more fascinating, that the gnawing hunger for revenge had somehow made life fresher, more invigorating. True, he might descend into the occasional numb rage—smashing vials, hurtling chemicals across the room—but such things were a small price to pay. He no longer had to worry about the cost of his materials: being the Joker's ally did have some monetary benefits, the clown's bizarre philosophy on currency notwithstanding.

It also helped that the Joker had some interesting friends.

"Crane!"

When working with chemicals, Jonathan rarely bothered to answer anyone who chose to confront him, even if he knew the formula of his current concoction by heart. He usually would only lift his gaze from his compounds in moments of emergency, much preferring the logistics of mixing elements to the drudgery of human interaction.

But for this person—this _woman_—he would make an exception. It'd been a while since he'd been in the company of true beauty, and even then he could not recall ever having known someone so astounding. There was something about Pamela Isley, something that she didn't share with her twin sister Lillian or her grandmother Juliet, nor even with any other woman that Jonathan had ever known. An oddness about her movements, a subtext present in her body language, her facial expressions, the smooth glass of her eyes and the healthy glow of her pale skin. He had yet to place what it was, but nonetheless it still fascinated him—for when she looked upon others, it was with the same cold indifference of a venus fly trap, as if the rest of the human race existed to serve her whims. And this inspired in Crane the very thing he loved most: Fear.

"Pamela," he replied, lifting his gaze, and rejoiced when face of the redhead pinched into a scowl. She was a tigress, peering over her prey to find an opening for her claws. It made his heart beat faster: Fear. Delicious. At times like these, he could only wish that he could find some way to bottle this feeling, for surely that would create the most powerful chemical the world had ever known.

_Go on,_ Jonathan thought. _Ask me how I can tell it's you, and not your sister. I might answer. Or I might let you stew, and keep the secret all to myself. Even I haven't decided which option._

"It's Lillian," the woman said, coolly, but he didn't need to see the slight flicker in her face to know she was lying. Crane was always able to pick out the differences between Pamela and her twin sister. It was a close thing—the two of them were so inseparable, it was almost impossible to tell them apart. But Lillian lacked that… that… _otherness_, that unmentionable quality that Pamela possessed. When Lillian smiled, the happiness actually reached her eyes. When Pamela did the same, it was only like looking at Lillian's reflection: like a picture of a picture of a picture of someone smiling. Not fake, not longsuffering, just… as if someone such as herself couldn't be bothered to be sincere with lower life forms.

_You don't like that I can see you as _you_, right? _Jonathan thought, gazing over her. As if aware she was being studied, Pamela's features twisted briefly into anger, and he felt another thrill run up his spine. Perhaps, one day, she would let loose and attack him. Then he would see if she could be reduced to screaming in terror by a simple mix of compounds. He'd never had cause to doubt his creations before—and, while his rational side knew that it was merely her way of carrying herself that made Pamela seem superhuman, his irrational side still felt somehow wary. It was as if Pamela was the unknown factor in his compounds, the one being that could destroy his theory of Fear and reduce him back to step one.

The only other person that had ever made him feel that way had been the Batman.

"Grandmother wants you," Pamela said, apparently deciding to ignore his none-too-subtle stares in her direction. Her head tossed high, wild, shaking off his gaze by that simple action. For a single moment she had been down on his level, with the rest of humanity—now she was superior once more. Then she turned without a word to walk from the room, Jonathan cursed and was forced to scramble to put out the Bunsen burner under his newest chemical batch, before hurrying after her.

She led him through the greenhouse, walking regally and avoiding looking at the plants on either side—but Crane could still catch the slight flickers of desire in her, the yearning to pause with every step and run her hands through the lush greenery. He'd seen her, once, late in the evening, sitting and cradling a sapling like it was a baby. Nearby, Lillian had been tending to some rosebushes. Jonathan had not, even for one second, been deceived over which of them was which. Even in her tenderest moments Pamela was oddly predatory.

Not that Lillian didn't also deserve her due; if she had a fault, it was to be as kind as her sister was inwardly vicious. Jonathan still remembered the night a few days ago, when Lillian had rushed into his office and told him to put away his things, that he had to come with her and her sister immediately. He'd asked why—she'd told him that Wendigo himself was visiting, and that since Jonathan had a pretty face, he, like her and Pamela, had to go into hiding.

"After all, you don't want him to see you," Lillian had said, "Even Pamela agrees that he'd like you, but she said she wasn't going to risk her own neck to fetch you. So we've got to hurry, we've got maybe twenty minutes to find a nice spot to wait his visit out. You _do_ want to keep your face, don't you?"

He most certainly did. Now, as he followed Pamela through the ferns, he allowed himself a spare amount of anger at her; she had been all too quick to throw him to the wolves—or, in this case, _wolf_. Still, he had learned long ago that the way of the world was cruel, and he knew he couldn't expect anything less from the likes of her, no matter how unusual her inward fire made her appear...

In any case, it wasn't often that he was called into the presence of Juliet Isley. Her hideousness was of such complete opposition to her granddaughters that she was a near total recluse. Some part of Jonathan wondered whether the two young women were not the blood relatives of Juliet Isley at all—he wondered if, in her desperation to find something of value in her appearance, she had chosen to adopt two lovely street urchins or some other such nonsense. He wouldn't have put it past her.

But for him to be called now was a major inconvenience—not that he'd been near a breakthrough, but because he'd had just about enough of the nonsense that Juliet Isley spewed forth every time she opened her mouth. Jonathan was willing to forgive physical defects, if only the mind underneath was sharp; but the eldest Isley did not even have that. If he had to listen to _one more lecture_ about the "goodness of Great Gaia," he just might douse the whole lot of them with a particularly nasty concoction that he had recently dreamed up.

In the name of science, of course.

Walking near Juliet's room, however, a nasally voice reached Jonathan's ears:

"_Hmm,_ Julie darlin', you _know_ how I just love to stop, _ah_, by... but we _are_ on a bit of tight schedule, _under_stand?"

"Joker," Crane, said, automatically, but before he had the chance to step forward there was an abrupt silence in the room. Pamela halted beside him, wearing a look of distaste, giving no sign of desiring to enter the room herself. Then the door burst open, and a six-foot-plus clown was standing between the posts, grinning.

"_Scarecrow!_" the jester fairly boomed. Pamela's nose wrinkled. The monster gave no sign that he even saw her standing there, for his eyes were entirely focused upon the disgraced doctor.

"Johnny-Boy! Looo_oong_ time – no see!"

"You were here just a few days ago, Joker," Jonathan said tiredly. The manic exuberance of this particular man never failed to wear him down. In all his time as a psychologist, he'd never seen a patient of such frenzied caliber, although one or two of his former case studies had gotten close. But that was only after they had been doused with a powerful batch of fear gas and were in the throes of an unbearable hallucination: with the way the Joker acted, he had to be high on something similar—all of the time.

"Can't I just meet a _good friend?_" the painted man asked, wigging his eyebrows upward, a look of mock surprise on his distorted features. Jonathan snorted in response, uncaring about how uncouth such a reaction was.

"As I recall, you weren't much of a friend in Arkham. I seem to remember an incident with some ripped-up clothes and partially digested oatmeal."

"Had to _hide_ the, aha, _evidence_, didn't I? Ya _know_ how these things are."

"As I recall, you backed up the Arkham pipes for days. And Varnham blamed me for everything, because you chose _my_ toilet to hide your... 'evidence'."

"That's really not..._ here _nor_ there_, not between _friends_, right Johnny?"

Crane let out a loud sigh, and mentally reminded himself: _This is your life now. You are beholden to the whims of the same madmen that you once wanted to understand._ Then a second thought: _At least the Joker spreads Fear for the sake of Fear, not like that idiot Wendigo._

Having found his center of calm, he asked, "What do you want, Clown?"

"Now... that you _mention_ it, Johnny," the Joker wheedled, hands gesturing expressively—and if Jonathan wasn't careful, he might be hypnotized by their movements—"I _do_ have something for you. A little... _job_. See—it's about your precious potions, 'm afraid."

"What about them?" Jonathan had to wince at the unconscious interest in his voice. There was nothing better than chemicals to catch his attention, but he knew he shouldn't egg the clown on with such expressive reactions. With the Joker, it was best to remain calm at all times, and at least show outward deference—otherwise, the result would likely not be pleasant.

"There _seems_ to have been... _a_... uh... _error_."

"_An_ error," Jonathan corrected automatically, earning himself a sharp look from the monster. Realizing his mistake, he backtracked, "...of what sort?"

"_Well_," said the clown, "I'm not really _sure_ at the moment, Johnny. But I think it's one of _yours_."

"_What?_" the doctor demanded, ire rising in him regardless of the danger of the Joker's close proximity. The jester didn't dare suggest what Crane thought he was, did he? He, Doctor Jonathan Crane, mess up a formula? The Scarecrow would allow himself to be put through a great many things—but insulting his capabilities as a chemist was too much to be endured.

"I'll have you know, Joker—" if he had been rational at that moment, Jonathan would have been embarrassed at the hotheaded whine now present in his voice—"that I am the most capable means of chemical procurement in this half of the United States! I was the one who mixed up the fear gas for the terrorist attack: I not only produced it in mass, I also invented it! Through years of valuable time and effort spent upon careful experimentation with expendable patients—"

"An _idea_ which _Varnham_ copied," interrupted the Joker, coldly, with an odd glint in his eyes, "Something you'd _better_ not... _remind_ me of."

"I had nothing to do with Varnham!" sputtered the shorter man, only now realizing his mistake, as he became aware of the darkening cloud over the jester's pale face, "And you know it!"

For a moment it looked as if the clown hadn't bothered to listen to Jonathan's last exclamation, or at least had chosen to disregard it, for he took a menacing step forward, his shadow looming larger in the doctor's vision. He even appeared ready to lunge at Crane, who was one hair short of quaking with fear—for pain, any sort of pain, was the one thing that Jonathan was not impervious to in any way whatsoever—but then Pamela cleared her throat.

Together, both maniacs regarded the redhead with surprise, completely forgetting their quarrel. She eyed them both levelly, with her customary superiority, and simply stated,

"As fun as it is watching you two hyenas cackle at each other, may I remind the Joker that he has a sick billionaire resting in my space."

"Billion... aire?" Jonathan squeaked, recovering his voice first. Naturally, the only thing that had caught his attention in Pamela's sentence—aside from the lunacy of her decision to speak up at all—was the mention of money. Money was the second most valuable thing in his life, aside from Fear: there had been a time when it had been the first, but then the Scarecrow had come and Jonathan Crane had realigned his priorities. Even now, however, his greed was always ready to reassert itself.

The Joker remained silent for a moment or two longer, and Jonathan didn't dare risk catching his attention. Still, the doctor couldn't resist taking a glance at the painted madman—he'd gone into his profession to study the mind, after all, and even with his other motivations, he still indulged his original intentions from time to time. He was rather fascinated by the look on the monster's face: its expressionless form had given the fresh coat of paint an ethereal look, like a white mask instead of a simple layer over the skin. It occurred to Jonathan that the Joker was not often surprised; or, at least, that he considered Pamela's interruption to be a surprise of unusually high magnitude.

But no sooner had Crane had the chance to peek at his face, than the jester's brown eyes had flicked to meet his own, and he was forced to look away. All he could do was hope that the clown hadn't caught him staring, for if Jonathan knew one thing about the Joker it was that the monster did not like being studied for the sake of science. For a moment he thought, in the expanse of their silence, that the Joker would be incited into another rage, but this passed quickly when the clown turned about and strode through the door, uttering only a single, flat command: "_Come_."

Pamela didn't obey—this wasn't an issue, though, for Jonathan was fairly certain that the instruction hadn't been for her. All he could do was follow, hoping in the back of his mind that the Joker wasn't entertaining thoughts of disemboweling him once they were alone.

The room in the back of the greenhouse was smaller than the ones in the front which served as Jonathan's lab and private sanctuary. This back room was only half the size of the front areas, and was where the twin redheads and their grandmother slept. Pamela and Lillian had strung up hammocks—made from all-natural biodegradable rope, they had assured him—while the nature of Juliet's deformity had necessitated her use of a bed. The bed was empty; Juliet had obviously left through the other exit and taken up residence somewhere else. Both of the hammocks were occupied: in one sprawled Lillian Isley, humming softly as she traced a ragged braid through her hair. And in the other...

Jonathan's eyes widened. "You brought _Bruce Wayne_ here?"

The clown simply shrugged. "Needed a place to _stow _him."

"But..."

"The _gals_ gave you a _television_, right?" asked the Joker, clearly annoyed. "So you _know_ I've got him..."

"Well, yes. That's all the news has been talking about; but I, for one, don't see why you needed him. It's really not time to draw the Batman's attention yet, and Isley's fortune was certainly sufficient—"

"_Shhh_," the jester interrupted, placing a finger across his torn lips, even though Jonathan had not been speaking overly loud. The doctor gave the monster a confused look.

Joker winked. "Don't want to _wake_ him, he's all tuckered out, the... _aha_, poor thing."

It had long been one of Jonathan's faults to take pleasure in the sufferings of others—this tendency was one of his attractions into psychiatry in the first place, and later it had led him into the services of Ra's al Ghul and the mob. Even Fear, as good of a motivation as it was, still involved suffering: and so, it was entirely natural that he gave the Joker a questioning look, silently begging to hear more.

As if the clown knew what he was thinking, the jester smiled, slyly. And stayed silent. Equally as silent, Jonathan fumed, for he knew that the monster knew he wanted details, but that he would never—could never—ask for them openly. Unlike the Joker, Jonathan had never been good at violence, one of the reasons for his decision to dabble in chemicals in the first place, and so was almost always forced to satisfy his bloodlust like a vulture, feeding off the stories of others.

"What do you want me for?" Jonathan asked, aware of the tightness in his voice.

"He got... _uh_... some of the laughing sickness," quipped the Joker, lightheartedly.

"_What?_" yelped Jonathan, "I told you that compound was for extreme situations only! With Wayne contaminated, the whole world could know about it! Do you want to ruin the whole thing?"

"_A-_hem," the Joker said, pointedly, and allowed his gaze to drift over to Lillian, whose hands had frozen in her hair, and was staring at them both with a perplexed look. Jonathan found himself thankful that it was her, and not Pamela, who was with them in the room, for Pamela would not have hesitated to investigate and use such an outburst to her own advantage.

At the same time, another part of Jonathan's mind made note of how readily the jester had answered his question, instead of dancing around the issue in his customary way—the clown must have genuinely desired for him to help Wayne, and so the doctor filed that information away for later. As it was, however, Lillian was the most pressing issue.

"Say, Lillian, could you help me?" he asked, putting as much persuasion into his voice as he could.

"Yeah?" she asked, her confused look dimming somewhat into guarded interest.

"There's a vial on my shelf, just beside the front door to the lab," Jonathan explained. "Purple liquid, it has XKGM3 written on it. Could you please fetch it for me? I have to take a look at Mr. Wayne and time might be of the essence."

Without a word, as if she was happy to be given tasks like a servant, Lillian had leaped out of her hammock and trailed outside the door. Jonathan waited until the door was shut again before stating calmly,

"I didn't mean to do that."

"Obviously," snorted the clown, as if such mistakes were to be expected from the likes of him.

Annoyed, Crane gave the Joker a glare, then proceeded to ask:

"How long has he been like this?"

"Maybe... _two_ or _three_ hours." Responded the jester, voice flat, as if with disappointment.

"And before that?"

"Aha, _laughing_ it up." This was accompanied by a chuckle.

"For how long?"

"_Maybe_... two hours?"

"No wonder he's out," Jonathan scoffed, "he's probably exhausted."

"Uh-_uh_," the jester warned, shuffling closer to Wayne and lifting up the billionaire's left hand: "Have a _look_-see."

Jonathan bent over, and found he had to remove his glasses just to make sure that what he was seeing was real. There was a light, yet distinctively greenish tint to Wayne's fingernails, one that became slightly darker the further back to the root the nails went. Crane sighed.

"It's only an allergic reaction—he'll be fine. Some of the test subjects went through the same thing, maybe one in ten." He paused. "That's why the compound isn't wearing off on its own, he's unable to fight it. A couple doses of the antidote should fix it."

"See if you can _fix_ his elbow, too," commanded the clown, and Jonathan glanced at the limb in question, nearly flinching when he saw how the billionaire's tux coat had been cut, revealing a swollen and discolored joint. Jonathan wasn't a medical doctor, but with demanding partners like this, he had to do whatever he needed to keep the jester happy.

"Pamela will want him moved," said Crane, taking a firmer grip on Wayne's hand and turning it over. No discoloration on the palms or pads of the fingers; good. He wasn't too far gone, then...

"_Your_ problem," said the clown, sounding as if he was heading for the door. Crane didn't bother looking up, but merely said,

"What do you want me to do if he wakes up while you're not here? Haven't you got a city to hold hostage and a vigilante to torment?"

"_Do_ what you do best," Joker answered, "Talk _psych_ science with him. He'll be _snoozing_ in no time."

"I don't suppose you mind if I drugged him, then," muttered Crane. He could feel the weight in Wayne's hand, and though the only bare spot on the man's body was up to his injured elbow, Jonathan could still see how muscular the limb was. He would be no match for such strength, billionaire fop or no. Though he doubted whether someone like Wayne had ever properly used such muscle—it wasn't like Wayne had ever tangled with the Batman, for instance... although that sprained elbow certainly looked as if someone had hit it...

"I'll be _back_ in a few hours, so you can let me know how it's going. _And_ every evening after."

"Of course," Jonathan said, dismissing the jester, as his attention had been drawn to the sprain; amongst the swelling, he swore he could almost see the bruising formed the shape of a cylindrical object, perhaps as wide as a crowbar—maybe Wayne did practice some form of martial arts? But then why leave such a wound untreated?

"Oh, ann_nd_... Johnny?"

"_Yes?_" the psychologist demanded, whirling on the clown—only to find himself nose to nose with the Joker, who had crept up behind him and was grinning with a little more than his usual menacing flair. Jonathan resisted the urge to gulp, finding such a response both too cartoony and knowing that showing any form of fear would be adding more fuel to the monster's psychopathic tendencies.

"If _he_ dies…" the red grin twisted wider, "_you_ die."

Jonathan sputtered. "What? But you need me, Joker—how else will you pull everything off? Nobody else has my expertise with the compounds, nobody else—why, you'd destroy the whole plan!"

As if disappointed, the jester shook his head. He tsked, "Johnny... _life_ isn't worth _living_ if you can't have _fun_ while you're, ah... working. And right now, _he_ is my fun, at least until Batsy shows up."

Jonathan gritted his teeth: Batman this, Batman that, it always came down to Batman... if he ever got his hands on that costumed freak, there'd be hell to pay for more than one great offense. He'd see whether it was really a human being under that Kevlar, all right—he'd strip that mind so bare, he'd be able to see into the man's very soul...

"Besides," the clown added, "When have _I _ever really cared _that_ much about plans?"

**000 . Author's Note . 000**

You all actually didn't think I'd _really_ have Temperance raped, did you? This story _is_ supposed to only be a "T," though I could see raising it to an "M" after the last chapter's cliffhanger.

No, I am not dead! I will never be dead! I will finish this story, even if it kills me!

The next chapter is only half finished. I had a little bit of free time last week, and I had to write something fun or I'd of lost it—no joke.

Once again, many thanks to my loyal reviewers: miikkuli, XxJagzxX, Emmy, realityfling18, Endgame65, midnight glade, dferveiro, Saturn-Jupiter, IVIaedhros, luanee, XenoZime, peoplhi, trueroyalblue, All Nightmare Long, CountryPixie, Vanafindiel, Valid User Name, chase A dream, Xrai, crazikido2 (a TON!), vicky, fluffyfg, Almost Funny, hopeyoudontmind, WhatDoYouThinkIKnow, The Heroine With 1000 Faces, Rebel Sympathizer, Silfrvarg, Shango, jezzica, Daimoto, nequam-tenshi, Sarafina Knowles, Tatsumaki-sama, & Zapphyre.

Thank you all so much! Over 500 reviews! Thank you all, so, so much! :D

Also, for crazikido2, a special thank-you for the wonderful Christmas present you gave me! I know it took a lot of time to write all those reviews (XD), so special hugs for you. Thanks a whole lot!


	32. Wondering

**IF THE FOUNDATIONS BE DESTROYED, WHAT CAN THE RIGHTEOUS DO?**

I don't own Batman. DC Comics does.

Please note that violence will occur in this story, and that less offensive words like "damn" will be used, but more offensive words will be "asterisked" out. Some sexuality will occur but never anything explicit. As of now this story is rated "T"—if any readers feel the rating needs to be raised, please contact me accordingly and it will be. (And for my sanity's sake, this is the last time this warning will appear!)

HA HA… _**WOOPSIE!**_ I made a mistake in the last chapter: I called Gordon's doctor by the name "Norton." I meant "Nor_bert_," as in "Dr. Norbert" from the first few chapters, who was referenced by Alfred and Bruce. They're the same guy… sorry. This is kind of like how I referred to Alfred as "Albert" a couple of times in the first few chapters (and I still want to hide my face in shame, let me tell you). I really need to start writing this more often, just to keep simple things like that straight in my own head.

I must apologize again for the long wait between chapters, though I suspect you're all used to it by now. Still, I'm in my Senior year and need a couple extra credits to graduate... so I ended up taking summer classes. Don't worry—I haven't abandoned my stories, I've just been busy. I'd like to once again thank those who have been sending me PM's of encouragement. It is extremely gratifying to know that people are reading this story and enjoying it. Thank you so much for taking the time to message me, because sometimes I need those little prompts to start writing again and to get over random bouts of writer's block.

This chapter is meant to be confusing, but in a good sort of way. It's meant to be disoriented yet somehow still readable. I've never written from the POV of someone drugged up before, so we'll see how this goes, eh?

.

.

.

**Chapter Thirty-Two: Wondering**

.

.

.

_Nowhen_

He was lost.

Impossible, to fit order onto swirling chaos. Maybe he had been alienated from the world for days, for hours—there was no way to tell. And he had no capability of _knowing_ that he was lost, no faculty available to understand that the world no longer made sense, much less that it _should_ have made sense. He had become nothing but a creature of memory and instinct, his mind struggling to reorganize itself by replaying events of his past, attempting by pure impulse to construct a timeline of his life—and thus, to bring the entity known as _Bruce_ back into the knowledge of his own existence. And yet... his consciousness had been so broken, he was unable to realize what his mind was playing back to him, having no understanding of what he was seeing, or feeling, or experiencing, powerless to even realize _what_ a memory was…

A nightmare. That's what this had to be, he thought—and this was his first coherent idea, before he was swept under again. But this single moment of clarity was the beginning of his struggle to _Be_. Over and over he found himself fighting his way to the surface, staying above the chaotic river of his memories, only to be inevitably dragged down once more. He was drowning, and he barely had the presence of mind to understand what was happening.

He recalled crying out for his parents, body jerking and writhing with the sound of the two gunshots. Maybe he had heard those shots more than once—for he couldn't tell, afterwards, whether or not someone had been holding him down, or whether he'd experienced it a first time with his limbs free and then again while being restrained. Later he would switch back and forth: yes, he had heard it more than once, no, he hadn't, yes he had, no he hadn't, yes, no, no, yes, no, yes, _no-yes-no-yesnonoyes_... Perhaps the reality of it was multiple choice. Perhaps, in this slight way, he had been granted a tiny look into the mind of the Joker; though, when he later came upon that stray idea, he rebelled against it as something completely unthinkable.

But it wasn't only his parents who came to him—there was also Alfred, to whom he kept stammering apologies, kept begging forgiveness, a never ceasing mantra of "I'm sorry, sorry, I'm so sorry, please be okay, I'm sorry to leave you alone, I wasn't thinking, I won't ever leave for years again I promise I won't leave..." It was much the same with Rachel, to whom he would have said many similar things, although with memories of her he had been too choked with tears to properly speak (but was it always Rachel he was addressing? Could it not be Giedre, since he had never before seen such scorn on Rachel's face as she said, _It's not who we are underneath... _Rachel had never been so cruel to him). And once, but only once, he rolled over, his cheek scratching against dirty denim—at that point, he believed that he was lying with his head cradled on someone's lap—and he'd said loud and clear:

"Temperance is an effing b#&^$. I hate her. I want to kill her. I'm going to kill that little mother, just you wait. Rip her effing heart out, the little b&%$*!"

"_Are_ you, now?" a voice had answered, darkly amused. A hand ran through his hair, patted his head. (It made him want to bark like a dog; he was being treated like a beloved pet, and who was he not to play that part? But no—the dog was _dead_, he'd _killed_ it, _bashed_ its head with a _bat_, so he just kept talking.)

"Hell yes!" He had babbled. "Gonna cut her into little pieces... hurt her until she leaves me alone forever!"

A chuckle resounded from above, the voice saying, "You _do_ that, then."

Recalling that event once the world was slightly more coherent, he tried to remind himself that he was under the influence of a foreign substance, and that—all the uses of alcohol as a "truth serum" in fictional literature aside—persons who babbled while drugged or drunk were not confessing deep or dark secrets. Someone intoxicated had no idea what they were saying; words spilled out from nowhere, and gave no indication what a person truly believed on any matter.

But that didn't stop the guilt. Despite his internal confusion, the chaos of memories struggling to reorder themselves, he still knew that he of all people had no right to say such things: he was the _Batman_, and he should never even have the mere _desire_ to kill. What was it Alfred had said, _Thinking is the same as doing?_ Or was it, _Saying is the same as doing?_ At least in a metaphysical sense: something about lusting for a woman in your heart being the same as actually doing the deed…

He was laughing again, because he suddenly knew where that phrase had come from. When he was four years old, on Sundays his parents had stuck him in the nursery for the sermon because they knew he wouldn't sit still for a whole fifteen minutes. But he'd figured out how to work the complicated latch on the nursery door, which until then had supposedly been childproof, and crept out like a commando to spy on the congregation. He'd thought that he could get away with such behavior if his parents didn't know about it. Yet on the ride home, he'd just had to ask, _Mom, what's 'lusting'?_ He recalled the way her face had gone red, and how his father had seen this and said, brightly, _Do you want to tell him, dear, or do you want me to?_ And she'd said—

"Idiot," a hollow, echoing voice interrupted the memory, and the word caught in Bruce's mind even as more human speech reached his ears. "Stop laughing, now: you're just making it worse. I've given you enough doses that you don't have to follow the compulsion any longer. It's all in your head, so stop it. You'd better breathe—if you laugh yourself unconscious again, when you wake up I'm dousing you with fear toxin. At least then you'll scream instead of this damned laughing…"

For some reason, Bruce found these words to be _hilarious_.

"I stand corrected," the voice muttered, as Bruce felt his body shake with silent laughter. "There _is_ something worse than being stuck in a nature preserve with three redheaded wiccans. It's being stuck in a nature preserve with three redheaded wiccans and forced to create a serum that does the _exact_ thing that you hate most of all, and then having to babysit a bumbling billionaire because a homicidal clown will gut you if you don't."

"Should I... _uh_... be _offended_, Johnny?" Interrupted a second voice.

"Not at all. I often think up insults for my friends whenever I don't know they're in the room."

"Touchy, Johnny-_boy_."

"You mean _touché?_"

"No, I mean _touchy_. Asin, you're _touching_ a ne_rve_."

"I apologize."

"So do I," Bruce murmured, for no other reason than it sounded like a good idea. He had no sense of direction—no true sense of anything outside himself, really—but he felt his body vibrate when a cackle shot through the room. This mocking laughter was more real to him than his own skin. It entered his ears and pierced into his mind, where it reverberated in a repeating echo, the sound not diminishing but instead growing with each rebound. His lungs seized up, strained. He didn't know why he suddenly found it so hard to breathe, because laughter wasn't poisonous. Was it?

"Isn't he just the most _politest_ little thing?" the happy voice crowed, in-between the most undignified chortling Bruce could ever recall hearing, "That's got to be, ah, the _fifth_ time he's said _sorrry_ to me! I don't know why it _de-_lights me so, but it does!"

"You probably enjoy it because you are a manic control freak with narcissistic tendencies and an extreme need for validation," muttered the first voice, so low that the owner of the second could not hear it over his continuing laughter. But Bruce did. Somehow this statement was even more hilarious than the threat the voice had originally issued, and at last his lungs released, spilling forth his own silent laughter into an audible accompaniment of the undignified man's merriment. Bruce could have sworn he saw the very air come alive with their laughter—but it wasn't real, because one couldn't _see_ air! Not only that, but he knew on some level that he couldn't really see anything at the moment. And yet there it was; dancing, twisting, writhing like a snake with a broken back... no, not a snake, it had _wings_, it was a _bat_—

"Okay, you're going to sleep now," said the first voice. "That's just too damned creepy, and I'm the one who is supposed to be the King of Fear."

Bruce did not remember going to sleep, or even the sleeping itself. He supposed it was possible that the owner of the voice had drugged him, because very next thing he knew the room was quiet and calm, and he didn't think that it was likely that the laughing voice could have been so quickly silenced. If he thought really hard—which, though still exceptionally difficult, was becoming somehow easier to do—he could almost pinpoint a memory of waking up. Yet no sooner could he think such a thing than the memory of doing so was gone forever. Like trying to remember a dream when he was a child, when he could feel _them_ all over, soft leathery petals whirling in the dark, stirring the wind, moving so close that they touched his clothes, his hands, his face—

"_No_," he gasped in the dark. "No, _they_ were afraid of _me_. They were. I've done it, Henri, aren't you satisfied? I have become my fear."

There was no answer. In the silence, it occurred to him that the reason why the world was so dark was not because he could not see, but because his eyes were open and the room was black with night. Validation of this theory came when his eyes began to adjust. There was a crack on the ceiling above him. Somehow, even though he wanted to look around at his other surroundings, the crack was what he saw first and it was the only thing he could focus on. But at least it was something.

As his sight returned outwardly, it returned inwardly as well. For the first time since he had been on the steps of Gotham General Bank, there was movement in the back of his mind. The Batman was awake.

Henri Ducard is dead, was the first thought that the Batman stated, flatly, dully, with no more inflection than words printed on paper.

But this was enough to make Bruce feel absurd. He had been talking to his dead teacher. For a just a moment, he had truly believed that he had been talking to Henri Ducard, discussing one of his nightmares. Henri had walked in on him, once, when he had been in the full throes of one of his night terrors, bats swirling on all sides and his parents' blood dripping from their greedy mouths. But the nightmare itself hadn't been as bad as the discussion Henri had forced him into, once the older man had woken him.

_You do not scream when you dream these things, do you?_ Henri had said. _This is both a good and a bad thing._

For you—Bruce thought savagely, staring at the crack as though it were Ra's al Ghul's very face upon the ceiling—everything I did was always a good and bad thing. I was your star pupil. But not the way that you wanted, and not the way that I wanted. I can't believe you used me, Henri. Everything you ever told me was a lie. Justice. Harmony. These things are not brought about by murder. You would have killed everyone, Henri. You would have destroyed my home. You would have had _me_ destroy my own home.

But he shouldn't think such things; he'd promised himself, after Henri's death, that he wouldn't think about his time in the League of Shadows. It did no good to dwell on his mentor's treachery. It stirred up the Batman's rage. The thought that the Batman had originally been created to destroy Gotham infuriated his inner self, for the Batman's desires were tempered with Bruce's: to shield, to protect, to preserve. Betrayal—that was all he felt when he thought of Ducard. The man had trained him for the sole purpose of tearing down everything he held dear.

And yet...

Perhaps it was the lingering effects of the toxin the Joker had used, but right then Bruce thought the irony of it all was funny as hell. Created to destroy Gotham, he was now doing his best to save it.

He did not break into more undignified giggling, however. A good sign. Perhaps he was more recovered than he thought. Or perhaps that was wishful thinking. He'd have to test himself before he knew he was entirely stable.

Simply seeing the crack in the ceiling was not enough, Bruce decided. He wanted more. But his eyes refused to work, his brain refused to send the signal to _move_. There was a brief moment of panic. Maybe this paralysis was a side effect, permanent and physical instead of fleeting and mental. But Bruce knew that he could not let alarm control him, and under his command the Batman clamped down on his fear. It felt wonderful to be in control of himself again, even if it was only inside his own mind.

Closing his eyes, Bruce blocked out all thoughts of the ceiling crack. Focus. Breathe deep. Now—where are you lying? On something soft. Is anybody else around? No—it's too quiet. Just you, Bruce. Just you and eight million Gothamite souls under your wings.

His mother's voice came to him: _And He will raise you up on eagle's wings, Bear you on the breath of dawn, Make you to shine like the sun..._

_No!_ No, no, no! Now was not the time for lullabies, real or imagined. He had to concentrate. Eagles' wings. He could start with that. Work with the remnants of the drug, not against it...

Think of wings. The cape. The rooftops—that's why I need it. Think of them: shingles, for residential homes and condos; tile, from that big Chinese restaurant downtown. Concrete. That's on the skyscrapers. Concrete and air vents. The hum of equipment—yet, it's so high up, the wind drowns out everything else. The radio in the cowl crinkling in my ear. Think of stepping to the edge, preparing to dive over. Imagine the rush of the air—anticipate it—savor the high—

Now—move my left foot.

Success.

Bruce could have yelled for joy, but common sense did not elude him. He allowed himself only a small smile, a twitch of the lips. Then he remembered how he had laughed uncontrollably, even in the memories of the suffering of those he knew and loved, and his happiness evaporated. He'd had enough of laughter. He hated it, now more than ever. Joy was a hindrance. The rumble of the Batman agreed: someone who, like him, had laughed in the face of others' pain, even under the influence of drugs, did not deserve to laugh again. If ever he needed to feel calm and calculating, now was the time. Now he could understand Temperance—she never even smiled—if ever he had needed to be as dour as she was...

Temperance. Bruce felt a twinge. She was probably dead. He didn't know what Slink had done to her, and he probably didn't want to—although some masochistic element in his psyche sniped that he probably _should_ learn what had happened, if only to teach himself never to act carelessly with others' lives ever again—but in any case, her end had likely not been pleasant. His next thought was _poor Alfred_, who had only wanted a little help around Wayne Manor and who now was without even that. Another twinge came to Bruce. He realized that, instead of caring about Temperance for the sake of her own personhood, he'd only placed value on her in relation to his love for Alfred. Could he blame the Joker's compound for this? Probably not; there wasn't even anything funny in the thought.

But any chance Bruce had for more introspection was cut short when light seared into his eyeballs. The blue orbs flicked shut on reflex—this saved him. For someone entered the room, footsteps pattering against concrete flooring. From this Bruce surmised that he was lying in the shadow of a door, and the room either lacked windows or had thick curtains. Whoever the new arrival was, he gave no indication that he knew Bruce was awake, and the billionaire wanted to keep it that way.

"He's cruel," the person was saying, "He's cruel, green mother, he's cruel, oh, he's so cruel..."

A woman's voice. Young, maybe very early twenties. A Gotham dialect—from the southern Narrows. It was very small and very slight, but Bruce could still pick up on the minor lilt in her vowel pronunciation. This was someone who had spent a majority of her childhood in the lower stratum of Gotham society. There was such an emphatic sense of despair in her words; he felt the need to open his eyes and ask her what was the matter. Alfred would have. And he had raised Bruce to be considerate to others. Besides, who knew—perhaps, by showing sympathy for one of his captors, he might maneuver himself into a better position...

But all of these thoughts were foolish. He had no idea who this person was, no idea of her relation to his situation, and there was no telling what her reaction would be if he revealed himself to be conscious. He decided to continue remaining still, motionless, his breathing even and deep. Feigning sleep like this would not have fooled Alfred, but then again Alfred was a special case. Bruce was willing to wager his fortune that this person did not know him well enough to understand when he was faking.

The woman paid him no attention, anyway. From the sounds, he decided that she was shuffling around the room, sniffling slightly. There was a small _tink_ noise, like a fingernail tapping the surface of a glass cup. But, whatever she was doing, she was interrupted when the light of the open door shone again.

"What are you doing in here?" another woman's voice hissed. "Do you _want_ to look like a forlorn puppy?"

"It's just—" the first voice stammered, "—this is our old room—"

"And it will be again," said the second voice, only slightly mollified. "But right now it's _his_ room, and you coming in here will look like desperation to a sick mind like his. Just stay away from him."

"_I was just trying to be nice!_" the first voice wailed. "Is that so bad? I was trying to help!"

"Grandmother says we aren't supposed to help him any more than necessary."

"But..." the first voice was obviously falling apart again. "But..."

There was a rustle. Bruce decided to risk opening his eyes ever so slightly. He saw two figures embracing in the dim light from the cracked doorway—and, for a second, he thought that the drug was making him see double, for they were the same height and general body type, identical even down to their attire. Then he realized that they were doubles, but not in the way he'd originally thought. Twins.

At the sight of their red hair, a horrifying thought occurred to Bruce: Temperance might be dead, but what if she also had a twin? There could be another one of her out there!

And before he knew it, he was laughing. _What are you doing?_ he could almost hear the Batman growling in his head, _have you lost your senses?_ He couldn't summon up the will to answer his own questions, even as the two women, having been startled by his sudden uproar, let out exclamations of surprise and dismay. One of them lurched back—the other stepped in front of her, protectively. Together they regarded him warily, and he, struck by how differently they reacted despite their similarities, couldn't help but gasp out, as if to explain himself:

"You two look exactly alike but act different, but Rachel and Giedre look different but act alike!"

"He's mad," said the owner of the first voice, whose face was streaked with grime and tears. She sounded awed, like a madman was somehow a celebrity, a priceless work of art. Her tone was not at all intimidated, even though she was almost cowering behind her double.

The eyes of her sister, however, glittered with something else—and Bruce felt something tighten in his chest, something fundamental and primal. It was how the Joker made him feel, only different in some manner that he couldn't describe; like he was being evaluated, sized up, compared to some unknowable standard, and Heaven help him if he was found lacking. Only... only... with the Joker, he felt like he was a puzzle piece being scrutinized for its proper place in an overarching scheme... he never felt like... like—

—she was stepping forward, kneeling at his bedside, and placing her lips on his; at first it was pleasant; but then, sickly sweet, he tastes something in the back of his throat, like honey; and then a tingle spread over him, as every fibre of his being shut down, every nerve switching off, like so many Christmas lights, winking out in a shower of sparks—

He didn't realize that he was struggling, wrestling against an apparition, until she actually was in his vision, eyes narrowed as she studied him. Naturally this only made him fight harder. The idea came to him that the phantom had somehow been a small glimpse into his future, a premonition that was now coming to pass. And yet, when she bent over, she only placed a hand on his forehead. This was shocking enough in and of itself, but it was also so unlike his brief hallucination that he stopped struggling panting and out of breath. It occurred to him that he was strapped down, leading to another brief second of panic, although the Batman seized this emotion and smothered it almost as soon as Bruce could realize that it was there.

"He's burning up," the woman said, and although her voice was not emotionless—and thus, in a small mercy, was so very _unlike_ the voice of Temperance—it held no real concern or pity, either. "Lils, I think you should fetch him."

"You just said to stay—"

"I know what I said," said the closer woman, "but if you don't want the clown to be angry with him, then go get him. Pretend you're me if you want to."

There was no more argument. The light of the doorway grew bright as it was opened, then was cut off entirely when the door was shut. The room fell into darkness, and it took Bruce's eyes less than a second to adjust. From her prolonged stillness, he could tell that the woman's vision took longer, which gave him precious few moments to gather himself together, knitting a mental shield from his old playboy persona. It was the playboy which naturally took over when her eyes focused on him once more.

"Is the laughing permanent?" he asked. His voice felt odd, heavy somehow. Strange that his playboy self should be so hard to pantomime. "'Cause that would be funny."

The woman let out a snort. Her hand withdrew from his forehead, then returned with something damp. A wet cloth—years of Alfred's old-fashioned nursing techniques had taught Bruce to recognize the slimy sensation anywhere. Involuntarily, he felt his eyes fall shut. Such a small gesture should not feel so good. He must have had a very high fever indeed.

"I am told that you will fully recover," was her reply, and Bruce felt oddly grateful that she had answered him, even though, in the back of his mind, he had the feeling that he would not be so grateful in another minute or two...

He wanted to believe that she was benevolent. That the hand patting his forehead was of a motherly sort, even if this was only true while they were alone. Bruce would even have accepted that she would be an enemy of his at a later time, so long as she was not his enemy right now. But these wishes were vapor in his mind, insubstantial, for they were _wishes_ and not reality. He did not need to have his eyes open to know that she was crouching lower; he could sense the change in the air, and knew that she was leaning over him. The darkness was his element, his home—he knew that his space was being invaded, just as he knew his own name. He could predict the exact moment before her lips traced his, though he still jumped at the contact, exactly as if it was unexpected.

There was a fraction of a second when he wondered what emotion, precisely, he should be feeling: should he be confused? Perhaps afraid? After all, she felt like a predator, an animal seeking out some sort of give, and he could not be certain that this was real. The idea that all was illusion gripped him, squeezed at his chest. But any pondering on this matter was cut short—for, when she pressed firmer against him, he felt the Batman rear up within his mind, snarling and fearsome and terrible, and knew that he was a fighter in his own right.

So he bit her.

She pulled away, as quickly as if she was real—if she was an illusion, a spirit conjured up by the tormented synapses of his brain, she was certainly evidence of an over-active imagination. He waited for a blow, a slap, some form of revenge, but one never came. Instead they both sat in stillness, and he was uncomfortably aware that she remained all too close. Perhaps the stillness, the silence except for their breathing, was the best vengeance she could come up with.

"So, what did you do _that_ for?" he heard himself say, desperate to end the quiet. He didn't really expect an answer, for he could almost come up with one on his own: she did it because she could do whatever she pleased, and she wanted to impart this message of her superiority, her _ownership, _to the newest inhabitant of her territory.

"Hmm," she said, sounding not at all angry, even though he knew that he had hurt her. "Tell me, Mr. Wayne, what sort of playboy bites the tongue of a pretty woman?"

"The drugged kind," he answered. She snorted, though he couldn't tell if this was because she was amused or not.

There was no more chance for them to talk: the door opened again, light flooding the room, and two people entered. Bruce found himself frozen in place, staring at her, as the newcomers moved about. He felt his arm being touched, then pricked by something sharp, and his frozen state became physical, instead of only mental. The woman leaned back on her haunches, looking every bit like the animal he imagined her to be, surveying him with a smug look of satisfaction.

It occurred to him that he'd just been participating in some sort of game, a test, one that, while different in the details, was ultimately not very dissimilar from the petty torments that the Joker had subjected him to; and that, instead of besting his opponent as he had in all of these previous exams, this time he had somehow lost. Even the Batman was bewildered—exactly how many of these psychopaths were out there in Gotham? In his last moments of coherency, Bruce found himself wondering if Ra's had somehow been right, and it was better that his home be razed to the ground, than to be left at the mercy of lunatics and clowns.

Bruce's final sight was of an oddly familiar man in glasses, who had caught sight of the woman as she turned away from them. She was wiping blood from the corner of her mouth.

.

.

.

**000 . Author's Note . 000**

For those who are interested, I have another story posted. Don't worry, it's not a chaptered story like _Foundations _or _Jeremiah's Well_. It's a oneshot that I worked on while I was having writer's block on _Foundations_. It really helped me through that block, and I think working on a oneshot was such a great idea that I might end up doing it more often. Also, I've decided to take prompts, so long as they are just for oneshots. See _Circadian Rhythm _in my profile if you're interested.

Once again, many thanks to my loyal reviewers: dferveiro, scorpiogirl93, Endgame65, PeanutButter, realityfling18, Reality Assassin, Saturn-Jupiter, PrincessAnnMacbeth, AsherahRiddle, Miravisu, nequam-tenshi, Thoughts Of A Shadow (hee hee, thanks for updating your story!), The Heroine With 1000 Faces, Valid User Name, AceQuisling, Crazikido2 (twice :D), water kangaroo, Rebel Sympathizer (I'm glad you still caught the "Norton" reference, LOL), Futaba Hotaru, All Nightmare Long, Elerrina Star, all-mad13, Belle Nuit, WaffleNinja, & Alice Rose Winter.

All of your feedback was greatly appreciated. :)


	33. Arguments

**IF THE FOUNDATIONS BE DESTROYED, WHAT CAN THE RIGHTEOUS DO?**

I don't own Batman. DC Comics does.

I've decided to post shorter chapters. It's just not fair to make you all wait for a month while I have half of a chapter completed, especially when that half-chapter is a piece that could stand on its own. Therefore, this will be about half as long as the last chapters of _Foundations_ have been. But a reader with a long memory (or one who has recently read the first few chapters) will remember that the first chapters of this story were only about 3,000 words or less. Back then I was posting a chapter a day. If I do shorter chapters, I'm fairly certain I could post an average of one a week. So... we'll try this, and see how you all like it.

.

.

.

**Chapter Thirty-Three: Arguments**

.

.

.

_Friday, 3:29 P.M. (Previously)_

Anna Ramirez stood in the back of the room, eyes hooded, listening to the debate among Garcia's subordinates. The part of her that cared about such conversations—the part that used to make careful note of what was said, and by whom, so that it could repeat everything verbatim to the proper informants—was dulled, so that the actual words were mumbles. It was all mere background noise to her whirling thoughts. From time to time she glanced at the screen of the television in the corner, where she knew the Joker's face had appeared not more than a day ago.

_He's out_, she reflected numbly. _He's really out._

Somehow she was not surprised. It was as if she had been waiting for this to happen. As if, from the very moment she had received the news that he had been caught, she knew this would be the result. The Joker could not stay locked up. It was like attempting to imprison a lightning storm or a hurricane. Impossible to do—impossible, even, to properly imagine.

"Mr. Mayor, you _cannot_ give in to terrorists!" Marl Rena Jones was saying. "If you give in now, imagine what he'll ask for next! He wants you to apologize? For what? _Living_ even though he targeted you? It's absurd, sir!"

"But Mr. Wayne is a valued member of society!" Alejandra Huerta hissed back, in what was probably her best 'courtroom voice,' since it carried quite well. "We can't allow that lunatic to butcher him, all for the sake of our pride!"

"Hartridge," demanded Garcia, massaging his temple, "what do you think?"

"I… well, I think… er, that elected officials always know best," the timid man ventured. From the moment the new police commissioner had walked into the Mayor's makeshift office, he had been trying to avoid attention, first by sitting in one of the chairs furthest from Garcia's desk, and then by standing near a bookshelf, as if hoping that the thin spines of the books would make his pinstripe suit blend in. He had a pinched, pointed face that, in Anna's mind, would have resembled the look of a sharp-witted fox, had he possessed any form of self-reliance or intelligence. Instead, with his short frame huddled over, he had more of the appearance of an abused animal, even though he likely had never suffered for anything in his life.

Anna just stopped short of rolling her eyes. At least Loeb, for all his faults, had gotten into his position by personally brown-nosing, instead of being the relative of someone else who had done so. If Hartridge had been police commissioner back when she was a mob informant, oh the things she could have done, right under his nose...

Her eyes squeezed together, then, trying to block out the pain—but the agony was in her heart, not her sight, and closing her eyes merely plunged the knife even deeper. Over the last few months Anna had tried not to think of her mother; to forget the image of the old woman dying in the hospital bed, all because _she_ didn't have the money. Because the only cure—and a temporary one at that—cost thousands upon thousands of dollars. Money that she didn't have because the mob was in chaos after the Joker. Money that she could have had, if she'd only been more proactive, more able to gather information. Perhaps then she could have saved up for that moment, when her mother needed help the most. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps...

_Perhaps you could have betrayed more people like Rachel_, the unbidden thought came to her, _You remember Rachel, don't you? You used to buy coffee together, theorize who Batman was over salads. And you remember how she struggled when they pulled her from the car, and you realized that you didn't want her to be killed, not like that, and—_

But it was useless to think about these things. Those days were gone and done and she was alone now, disgraced, forgotten by the mob, deemed suspicious by Gordon, stalked by Officer Stephens. Anna knew that if she turned to look, Gerard Stephens would be watching her, angry as always, scornful. She fantasized, every so often, about shooting him. Then she could escape. She could go who knows where—anywhere. It did not matter. Just Away.

Anna forced her focus outward, wiping at her eyes, resisting the urge to delve into her pockets for a tissue. She had been crying far too much recently. At the moment it would only draw attention, and she desperately needed less of that. Now that he was in charge, perhaps that idiot Hartridge would inadvertently separate her and Stephens, order each of them to different locations. Gordon wouldn't have spoken to anybody about the need to keep her under watch—Jim had learned his lesson with her, and now he did not trust anyone, even to watch a suspected informant. Stephens only trailed her unofficially because the man was a bloodhound, suspicion being part of his nature. He had no real proof that she had worked for the mob.

Anna was not considered a threat by most other cops, who only knew that Gordon had stopped trusting her without knowing why. The morning after the Joker had been caught and the Batman had gone on his murderous rampage, Anna had been found, unconscious, in an alley near the commissioner's home. Rumors said that the Batman was responsible, making her seem like the sole survivor of the dark knight's killing spree. This made her somewhat of a hero to those who had been Wuertz's buddies. Not that Stephens allowed her to enjoy her new status; Gordon, too, had tried to isolate her from the rest of the force...

Anna knew that Jim Gordon had to know about Dent. After all, it was Dent who had forced her to draw out the man's family. Surely there had been a confrontation of some sort, because Barbara and her children were still alive, and Dent—from what Anna had seen—had been the one on a murderous rampage. Maybe the Batman had faced him. Maybe the Batman had indeed killed him, as Gordon claimed. It would have been self-defense. That still made the Batman a killer, but when one considered who he had been facing off against—

"The Batman," Marl Rena Jones' low voice, which sounded like that of a mooing cow, interrupted Anna's thoughts. "We ought to try and make contact with him."

And just like that, the room was silent.

For a moment Anna forgot herself: she was back to being a mob sellout, information being her bread and butter, instinctively knowing that this was an important bit of news. Her eyes darted about, gauging the various reactions. Hartridge looked terrified, as if merely mentioning the Batman's name could summon him like a demon from Hell. Garcia was shocked, his mouth bobbing open and closed repeatedly, before settling for something vaguely in-between. And Huerta... Anna could have sworn that the DA's face had turned an ugly puce color, like Marl's words had literally poisoned the air. Then the little woman swelled, balloon-like, and popped.

"Contact? Contact? _Contact?_"

Marl did not miss a beat. "That was the word I used, yes."

"_Contact!_" Huerta's voice rose in a shriek. Marl showed no sign of noticing this, though Hartridge whimpered and made a show of rubbing his ears.

Anna's lip curled. A sneer or smirk, it didn't matter which.

"Under the circumstances, sir, that may be our only option." Marl turned to the Mayor, obviously realizing that Huerta would never be her ally and attempting to convince the one man who could wield true control over the matter. Huerta neglected to continue her rant, she was so busy sputtering over the fact that a mere policewoman had chosen to ignore her outburst.

"This city does not deal with vigilantes," said Garcia, who somehow—quite admirably in Anna's belief—was able to retain the same calm as Marl. "I myself pledged in my election campaign to not only rid this city of corruption, but also to put any lawbreakers away for the good of society. It would be hypocritical to—"

"Mr. Mayor," Marl interrupted, her low voice easily overpowering Garcia's. "It would be fair to say that the situation in Gotham has changed drastically since your election two years ago. Not only has the Joker appeared, with the disaster at Arkham he has now resurfaced. This city has already barely withstood his first onslaught—a second one might break the camel's back, if you will. Seeing as the Batman was the one who stopped the Joker the last time—"

A snort from Huerta cut through Marl's argument.

"Do you really believe that?" The District Attorney demanded. "I've read the SWAT reports. Batman interfered with their operations, attacked several officers, gave four of them concussions, as well as causing considerable damage to the Pruitt Building with some sort of timed explosive devices. How do we know that he was the one who apprehended the Joker?"

Again, Marl did not miss a beat. "Well, the Joker _was_ found hanging upside down. Rather bat-like, actually."

Sometimes Anna wondered if, in a previous job, Marl had been a comedian. Personally, Anna doubted that she would have been able to say such things with a straight face.

But there was no stopping Huerta. She did not appear to interpret Marl's statement as sarcasm, and rolled her eyes at the Mayor as if to say, _See how intelligent these police officers are? I am Harvard-educated! I shouldn't have to listen to this nonsense!_

"As quaint as that explanation may be," Huerta huffed, talking slowly and somewhat babyishly, like she felt the need to dumb down her words for Marl's understanding, "Did you even consider the fact that nobody else witnessed their supposed altercation? The Batman didn't hang around to give details. For all we know, he and the Joker sat and had tea while the SWAT teams struggled to reach them—we have no idea whether they fought at all. Maybe they were working together!"

"Right," responded Marl. "Because it's rational to think that the Batman would befriend a man who tried to kill him."

"These people aren't like us! They're not rational—they're _crazy!_ Dressing up like a winged mammal to fight crime is not evidence of a logical mind." These statements sounded rehearsed. Anna would not have been surprised to learn that Huerta had been practicing them, chanting them to herself in the bathroom mirror. The attorney's animosity toward the caped crusader was legendary among the newspapers—and Anna, listening to Huerta carry on, was beginning to believe that the papers had somewhat diminished the size and scope of Huerta's hostility.

"I will admit it seems a bit eccentric," Marl hedged, "but you can't deny that it did produce results. Violent crime went down almost thirty percent when the Batman first appeared—you should know that, Mr. Mayor. When Gordon was in the MCU he delivered the statistics to you personally."

"Batman's activities _lowered_ the crime rate?" Huerta snapped. "Batman's activities are _part_ of the crime rate! In case you haven't noticed, vigilantism is illegal. And the Batman _did_ go on a murderous rampage right after his supposed 'confrontation' with the Joker. According to most sources, he hadn't killed—that we _know_ of—before that point. Who knows what he and the Joker said to one another? Maybe they made an alliance! Maybe the Batman is the one who set up the explosion at Arkham—we still don't know the cause! Maybe the Batman is behind all of this!"

"Maybe," Marl responded, with the patience of a Saint and the delivery of Abbot and Costello, "You are making up wild accusations instead of waiting for proper evidence, because you have some sort of vendetta."

Anna winced. She had a mind to cover her ears—Hartridge already had—because she knew that Huerta was too riled up to respond any other way than what could properly be called an adult temper tantrum. The district attorney did not disappoint.

"My _vendetta _is _justice_ and _law! _The Batman is a confirmed murderer! He killed my predecessor, left the Gotham legal system in utter chaos... Why, he shot that cop, _what's-his-name_—Wuertz! He killed an innocent member of your own profession! Not to mention terrorizing the _wife_ and _children_ of police commissioner Jim Gordon—"

Something inside Anna snapped. All she could see was the glint of revolver in the streetlight, listening to Barb on the other end of the line, so confused and worried. She was trying not to stare at the mangled flesh on the man's face—

"He did _not!_"

The words were out before she could realize what she was saying. In the old days, when she was an informant, she would not have been so careless; but months of inactive communication skills had dulled her wits. Anna was struck by blind panic. Those three words were like an open admission of guilt—they demanded an explanation, one that she could not give. Who would believe her if she tried to tell anyone about Dent? He was a hero, a martyr, the White Knight, and she was a police officer who had once been up on the roof while the so-called "batsignal" was lit. The last thing Anna needed was to bring the wrath of the district attorney's office down on her own head. It wouldn't be hard to expose her work as a mob informant, link her to the Batman, and scapegoat her into a supporter of the Joker. With the way Huerta was carrying on, the Attorney was certainly willing to tar and feather any of the Bat Man's defenders...

But it was Huerta's ranting that was Anna's saving grace. The small woman was shouting too loudly and too furiously for Anna's own outburst to be properly overheard, as it most certainly otherwise would have. Instead, those three words were swallowed up in what was quickly becoming a tirade, one that only the likes of a lawyer could unleash.

Face coloring, Anna quickly glanced about the room again. Hartridge was oblivious, hands in his ears. Garcia was trying to calm his infuriated subordinate. Stephens glared at her, suspiciously, when she turned her eyes on him—but this was a normal reaction, so she had no idea what he had or hadn't heard.

But Marl—

Anna shuddered. Marl was staring right at her, and making no pretence of doing anything but.

Unable to stand such scrutiny, Anna looked away. She focused on the empty television screen. Right there. The Joker's face had been right there. How many times had Dent's face been on there, too? Anna suppressed another shudder. Too many. She couldn't bear to watch the news any more, since the stations had a habit of plastering the former DA's picture up whenever they talked about the Batman. The Dark Knight was all they talked about anymore—him and his latest murders.

_Killers, all of them_, Anna thought. _Good. Maybe they'll kill each other._

.

.

.

**000 . Author's Note . 000**

This chapter will appear to have many things in common with another oneshot of mine, _Wrong_. That is because the concept of _Wrong_ was originally part of the concepts of _Foundations_, but was branched off because of the way events turned out (specifically, Commissioner Gordon getting shot in Chapter 13). But I do want to let you all know that, if I were to ever continue _Wrong_ at some later date, the events of _Foundations_ would not be any clue as to how the characters would react in _Wrong_. For example, if in _Foundations_ Anna Ramirez turns out to be a bad gal (_if _she does indeed end up being one in _Foundations_—she could turn good), that doesn't mean she'd be bad in the follow-ups to _Wrong_. Just FYI.

Another big round of applause for my wonderful reviewers: Endgame65, Alice Rose Winter, guess, Nadezda-hope, chase A dream, midnight glade, Saturn-Jupiter, Agatha, Thoughts Of A Shadow, and All Nightmare Long. Your feedback really brightened my day, thank you for spending the time to give me a note on what you thought of the last chapter! Hugs to you all!


End file.
